


A Dawning Faith

by alienlover13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Complete, Cooking, Duelling, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, HP: EWE, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Deathly Hallows, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Romance, Smut, Teacher Harry, Teaching, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienlover13/pseuds/alienlover13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes a moment for Harry's life to be forever changed. Now all that's left to decide is how to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dawning Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JayEz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/gifts).



> **Warnings** : An instance of non-con (not between Harry and Draco)
> 
> After the semester ended, I intended to pick up with my other fics right where I left off, but then I decided it might be fun to warm up with a delicious smut scene where Draco works as an erotic dancer and Harry happens to see him perform. Along the way, this story morphed into something more meaningful than I ever meant it to be. ***This is still very much a romance, so please don't let the non-con tag dissuade you from reading.***

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“Come on Harry, if anyone deserves a break, it’s you,” pleads Seamus, fully expecting to be turned down. He takes a long sip of his cognac and leans back in his seat, checking out the men lingering at the bar.

Harry watches his friend thoughtfully, weighing his options. He must take too long, because Seamus finally says, “It’s alright, Harry, next time,” before he turns to gaze after a dark haired man sidling back to a table with two blonde girls.

“Hey, I haven’t even turned you down yet!” says Harry indignantly.

“But you were about to.”

“Actually, no, I wasn’t going to turn you down.”

Concentration on the brunet broken, Seamus turns around to squarely meet Harry’s gaze as Ron watches anxiously from across the table.

“You mean you’re saying yes to a night out?”

“I am,” says Harry evenly, wondering what he’s getting himself into.

“Mate,” Ron ventures, “You know what you’re volunteering for, right? Dancing, drinking, flirting with men…”

“I can dance and drink,” says Harry, throwing back the last of his Jameson.

“Yes, you can drink,” smirks Seamus.

“You really might want to think about this, Harry,” says Ron.

“It’ll be fine, Ron,” reasons Harry. “I know what I’m doing. Besides, Seamus would never put me in any seriously compromising situations.”

Beside him, Seamus snorts into his glass and Harry can just make out a very muffled “Don’t count on that.”

“Yeah, that sounds a little naïve, Harry,” murmurs Ron into his own drink. “Seamus’s been itching to get you out on the town forever now.”

“Damn straight I have,” says Seamus, clapping a hand down on Harry’s shoulder. “So when’s it going to be? Tomorrow night? I did have plans to drop by this one place, but I can easily incorporate you.”

“Right,” says Harry, pulling out his portable calendar. “Yeah, I’m free tomorrow. Dueling is next week.”

Ron groans. “Seamus, if you permanently damage him, I’m never buying on Friday nights again.”

“Ron,” says Harry, glaring at his oldest friend, “Just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I’m fragile or need taken care of. Might I remind you it was your sister who I lost –”

“Exactly,” breaks in Seamus. “You just don’t want to pony up after that pay cut the Aurors took at the Ministry this week.”

Ron quickly holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, stop talking about it! Have I mentioned lately that I hate both of you? And Harry, it’s your own damn fault if Seamus puts you in an awkward situation where he insinuates that you’ll have sex with another man.”

Both Harry’s and Seamus’s mouths fall open in identical expressions of horror.

“Ron,” explains Seamus, recovering first. “I won’t be the one doing the insinuating. Harry will. Trust me.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” says Ron, shaking his head.

“Want to come with us?” Harry flings back. “You might even enjoy it.”

“I’ll leave you to your lurid jaunts, mate,” Ron sighs. “Just don’t come bitching to me when you’re all over the special Sunday edition of the  _Prophet_.”

“They’ve all been so busy complaining about Harry’s eligible bachelor status that it would be really shitty of them to get on his case for having a little fun,” reasons Seamus.

“Well,” says Harry, “When has the  _Prophet_ ever been known for being reasonable?” He continued, “Wait, don’t answer that,” as Ron opens his mouth.

“I’m going to hit the can,” Seamus says, getting up from the table. “Be back in a few.” He crosses the room quickly, giving the brunet a meaningful look that neither Harry nor Ron miss.

“Oh, Merlin, not again,” groans Ron. “Does he have to pull every time we’re having a drink?”

“I sure hope this isn’t a preview of tomorrow night,” says Harry gloomily, snatching Seamus’s drink and swirling the rest of it around in the glass. “Mate, I know you don’t want to hear about this, but I can’t even remember the last time I’ve had sex. In fact, –”

“If you say ‘it was with your sister’ I’m going to fucking kill you,” barks Ron.

Harry shrugs. “Not your sister…”

“If you say ‘it was with your brother’ I’m  _really_ going to fucking kill you.”

“Okay, I won’t say it then,” snickers Harry.

Ron groans again, much more loudly than before. “And yet I know you’re not going out solely to get laid. If you wanted a fuck badly enough, you would have found one. It’s not like you haven’t got swarms of fans, both men and women.”

Nodding, Harry concedes, “You’re right. It would be so much easier if I just wanted sex. God, I could even pay someone if it came to that.”

“Why hasn’t it come to that, though? Seriously, I don’t know how you’ve gone so long without it. Like, none of us could really fool around before because of the War, but now I would never be celibate.”

“I’m not celibate,” Harry snorts. “At least not willingly. The last person I was with – stop wincing, you squeamish sod – the sex was great. But I never really felt that kind of connection I’ve always imagined I’d feel with a partner.”

“So you’re looking for love,” reasons Ron, after wiping the grimace off of his face.

Harry rubs his face with his hands, sighing. “Yeah, more or less. I don’t want to fuck someone I don’t love. Sometimes I really wish I could, because it would be a hell of a lot easier. Or sometimes I wish things would have worked out with your brother.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry!” huffs Ron, “Stop talking about fucking my siblings!”

“I really cared for George,” muses Harry, ignoring Ron’s complaints. “But I felt the same way about him like I did Ginny, like they were both really good friends, even family.”

“Oh, I wonder why you feel related,” says Ron, rolling his eyes. “You’ve only known both of them since you were eleven years old. No shit you feel like family.”

“Yeah, I don’t do casual sex,” Harry continues on. “Otherwise I would have hit either one of them back up again.”

“I can’t even,” grumbles Ron, refusing to indulge Harry any further. “For Chrissake, what is taking Seamus so long? He usually comes a lot quicker than this.”

“Should I go see what’s keeping him?” asks Harry, his eyes sparkling.

“Better you than me, mate.”

Harry slides off of his bar stool and slouches off towards the bathroom. He has the foresight to knock on the door, even though it would look suspicious to everyone else in the bar that happened to notice. When no noise was forthcoming, he pushes open the door and walks in. Having seen Seamus in some pretty compromising positions before, Harry is still surprised to see his friend engaged with not only one, but two men; the brunet on the ground blows Seamus while a blonde man takes him from behind.

He must make some kind of noise, because Seamus looks up and smiles at Harry, and behind him, the blonde waves. “Harry! Want to join in? You can get some practice for tomorrow.”

“Uh, I don’t think so, Seamus,” says Harry uncertainly, backing slightly away.

“Are you just going to watch then?” asks the blonde man.

This is definitely the most awkward situation Harry ever walked in on. He goes to say no, but then the brunet stops sucking Seamus and Harry is drawn to the sight of his red cock bobbing freely as the blonde pushes into him. He watches for just a little too long and Seamus laughs. Before he can feel properly embarrassed, the brunet comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Harry’s torso.

“I could do that to you too, if you want.”

Unbidden, Harry’s cock springs to attention beneath his jeans. He moves to bend down in front of him, but Harry jerks out of his grasp and deftly moves a few steps away.

“Right,” he says, forcing all thoughts of sex out of his mind. Harry meets Seamus’s gaze again and confirms their plans for tomorrow. Out of the corner of his eye as he opens the door, Harry sees the brunet back up and let Seamus mount him. Aroused beyond belief and nearly kicking himself for not participating, he gets the hell out of there.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” queries Ron when Harry arrives back at the table.

Before answering, Harry snags a mostly full beer off a neighboring table and chugs it. Ron raises his eyebrows, but otherwise says nothing because the injured party is too busy sticking his tongue down the throat of a lady ten years his junior.

“I’m never checking the bathroom again,” breathes Harry, a good thirty seconds later. He shakes his head. “You’ll never believe what I just walked in on.”

“Oh God,” mumbles Ron. “Tales of Seamus’s illicit bathroom affairs are going to give me a coronary. Does he have no shame?”

“Apparently not,” Harry says, sinking down into his chair. “He’s currently in the middle of a threesome. Yes, when I say ‘in the middle,’ I mean in the middle.”

“If I cover my ears, will you stop?”

“Hey, at least you didn’t have to walk in on it.”

“You volunteered! Remember?”

“Yeah, well I’m never doing that again,” Harry says, slipping the empty beer bottle back on the table it came from.

“When you say that, do you mean that you’re never watching Seamus partake in that again, or that you’re never participating in one?”

“Why do you want to know?” He doesn’t have a good feeling about this question.

“Cause it almost looks like you wanted to be in the middle with Seamus,” Ron admits blushingly.

“Ron!” Harry exclaims, yanking his shirt down to cover his erection. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, Harry, what the fuck!”

“You know, they actually asked me to join in. I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?” Ron inquires, reaching behind him to snag a cocktail left behind by a lady on her way to the bathroom.

“What do you mean, ‘why didn’t I?’ Would you have sex with one of your mates and two other random dudes in a sleazy bar bathroom?”

“Yeah, well I’m not the one who hasn’t gotten laid in like three years,” snaps back Ron, draining the cocktail.

“Touché,” pronounces Harry, toasting Ron with his water glass. “Merlin, how am I going to make it through tomorrow with him?”

“You made it through the bathroom affair, didn’t you?” shrugs Ron.

“You didn’t hear the most embarrassing part of it,” reveals Harry. “So before Seamus was, er, in the middle, this brunet was blowing him.”

“Uh huh,” Ron nods.

“And then he moved away, and Seamus’s dick was just, er,  _there_ , and I –”

“Oh God, tell me you weren’t staring at Seamus’s dick!” gasps Ron, running a hand through his hair and mussing it.

“Um, yeah,” Harry admits. His face is on fire again.

“Harry, didn’t we already talk about how you can’t just go around looking at your friends’ dicks?”

“Oh,  _was_ that a conversation we had, Ron?” snaps Harry. “My apologies again.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” barks Ron impatiently. “So can you go out with him tomorrow night or not? You know that he’s going to try and get you to hook up with someone.”

“I just won’t drink a lot,” decides Harry. “It’ll be fun. I can’t remember the last time I had a good night out.”

Ron glares at him, and Harry clarifies. “You know, a night out flirting and dancing, not a night out drinking with my best mate.” Slightly mollified, Ron gets up from the table and reaches out a hand to pull Harry up.

“I don’t know about this, Harry. I’m getting a bad feeling about the whole arrangement. I still say that we should have never let Seamus into our weekly Friday night out.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” nods Harry. “But we didn’t know what he was like now. I’ll just go out with him this one time and see how it goes. I mean, it’s not like I can take you out to the gay bars.”

“Oh, so now we’re just using him to get you a date?”

“More or less.”

“I can see a million ways for this to go wrong,” says Ron, shaking his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to call it quits right now and just switch our drink night and place without telling Seamus?”

“Let’s give it a couple more weeks,” says Harry.

“I trust you, mate,” discloses Ron, “but sometimes it’s best to quit while you’re ahead. Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow night?”

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” smiles Harry, walking over to the bar’s Floo.

“You’d better,” grouses Ron. “Otherwise I won’t know whose ass to kick when something goes wrong.”

“Why are you being so negative?” demands Harry, hand in the Floo powder. “It’s like you don’t want me to ever date anyone.”

“Harry,” says Ron, laying a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Of course I want you to date. But really, I don’t think this is the best way to go about it. I know you but Seamus doesn’t, not as well as I do, and he’s going to push you past your limits.”

“I get where you’re coming from,” says Harry, still turned towards the fireplace. “But I want to do this.” He faces Ron. “You’re bloody getting married, and I haven’t been on a date in three years.” There was no need to say more. Their eyes connect, and Ron nods once, stiffly. Harry throws the powder into the fireplace and steps in after it. After muttering what almost seemed to be a silent prayer, Ron follows suit.

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The next day, Harry wakes up hungover with a headache. He wrestles himself into the bathroom for a Pepper Up Potion, and after downing it, coaxes his body into the hot shower. It feels like heaven on his sore muscles, and Harry entertains the notion of asking Kreacher for a backrub. All former dislike aside, he still has the feeling it wouldn’t go over so well.

There was nothing else to do, so Harry spends the early afternoon cleaning his flat. He’d gotten his own place after finally becoming fed up with Mrs. Black’s racist haranguing, leaving Kreacher behind at Grimmauld Place. Harry tries to check in on him biweekly, but sometimes he trips up and only comes monthly. Still, Kreacher doesn’t seem to mind.

Finally, it is time to meet Seamus. Harry washes his face and put on a nice pair of black trousers and a steel gray shirt, relieved that his hair had managed to somewhat calm down in the past year. Slipping his wand into his back pocket, even though he’d heard a thousand times from Mrs. Weasley and Hermione both not to do that, he Apparates to the corner of Prichett and 4th where he and Seamus agreed to meet.

Upon landing, he is greeted with a resounding, “Harry, ready to get going?” Apparently, Seamus wastes no time when it came to a night of drinking and partying.

“Where’s our first stop?” Harry queries.

“Place called Brawn, a little gem I found earlier this year. It’s wizard and muggle, but I still wouldn’t use too much magic.”

“Sounds good. How are we getting there?”

“Apparating. But first, let’s pre-game it up a little. They have shit drinks, but we’re not going for the booze.” Seamus pulls a flask out of his jacket pocket, takes a long swig, and then passes it to Harry. Remembering his vow to be in control of his senses, Harry throws back the liquor, but blocks the hole with his tongue so only a little liquid flows into his mouth.

Seamus laughs. “That’s right, drink up mate. I’m not kidding about how horrible the drinks are, really. The beer I had last time tasted like goat piss.”

“Do I really want to know how you know what goat piss tastes like?” asks Harry, raising an eyebrow.

“No, mate, I really don’t think you do,” says Seamus seriously, shaking his head. He claps Harry on the back. “Let’s get going. Much to do tonight.”

They join hands, and Seamus Apparates them right outside of the club called Brawn. It looks a bit downtrodden, but Harry can see festivity within. They continue on to the door, Seamus leading the way inside. The music is loud and the air rank with the scent of beer, but Harry can’t help the excitement growing in the pit of his stomach. A night out on the town – what is there really to worry about?

It takes a minute to adjust to the dim lighting and the confusion created by gyrating bodies, but Harry starts feeling a little more comfortable after he and Seamus grab a table and start watching the sea of dancers.

“What do you think about that blonde over there?” shouts Seamus over the fray, pointing at a muscly, short man. “He’s sexy as fuck.”

“Not my type,” Harry hollers back.

“Of course not,” Seamus laughs. “I swear, Harry, you’ve got to lower those standards a bit. There hasn’t been one man in three years you’ve found suitable. Merlin, if they have a hot arse, go for it.”

“Maybe I want more than a hot arse,” snips Harry.

“Not tonight you don’t!” jokes Seamus. “Live a little, mate. Look out at all the dick ripe for picking.”

Harry says nothing. He hadn’t explicitly told Seamus he wasn’t trying to pull tonight, but he’d thought his friend knew that.

“Come on, let’s dance!” Seamus wheedles, holding out a hand for Harry to grab. He complies, and Seamus drags him out to the dance floor where some electronica version of a Celestina Warbeck song is playing.

Feeling incredibly awkward, Harry starts moving his hips in a circle, trying to remember a dance move other than the robot. He only grows more uncomfortable when Seamus laces his hands around his waist and starts grinding his crotch into Harry’s arse.

“Push back into me, that’s it, Harry,” Seamus coaxes into his ear.

His face burns, but he complies because other dancers on the floor doing exactly the same thing. They find a rhythm together, and Harry can feel Seamus getting more and more turned on. Suddenly, Seamus’s hands move to his hips and he deserts the circular motion they’d been making to rut hard against Harry’s arse. Harry can feel Seamus’s shudders and hear his gasps, and as Seamus finishes behind him, is overwhelmed with shame. No one notices anything out of the ordinary and Harry wasn’t opposed to acts of sexuality, but he feels vaguely used. They are just supposed to be dancing, after all. His feelings increase tenfold when Seamus steps away from him and shouts something about going to get a drink.

There is no way to follow him off the dance floor without looking like a desperate fool, so Harry starts moving toward the bathrooms. On the way, he is intercepted by a tall brunet with a kind face.

“Fancy a dance, mate?” Harry nods yes, and the man steps forward and initiates a ballroom stance. He leads them in the polka across the floor, with electronica playing all the while, spinning Harry around the room. They prance and twirl, the man smiling brightly at Harry, who is soon gleefully laughing with both the hilarity of the situation and with how much fun dancing can be.

They come to a stop on the outside of the dance floor, panting with exertion. The man extends a hand to Harry and offers, “Hi, I’m Eric.”

“I’m Harry, and by the way, that was amazing.”

Eric laughs. “It was easy, because you dance like a natural.”

Doubling over, Harry snorts with mirth. “I can honestly say that I haven’t heard that one before. If you can believe it, I’m usually bloody awful at dancing.”

“Nonsense,” Eric smiles. “You just need to have a good lead, at least until you become more experienced with the dance.” He meets Harry's eyes in a way that seems intimate, and Harry inwardly gulps.

“You’re not making some sort of awkward innuendo, are you?” Harry ventures. Eric’s face turns questioning, and Harry clarifies, “It’s just, I came here with my friend to have a nice night out, but he's pushing me to get off with some random bloke.”

Eric starts laughing again, and Harry smiles with relief. “Oh man, I totally feel you. That's only the story of my life. But no, I was not trying to awkwardly seduce you with my polka puns, endearing as they may be.”

“Phew, because maybe we can be friends now,” Harry jokes. “I always wanted to know someone who could dance a mean polka.”

“Grab a drink?” Eric asks, gesturing in the direction of the bar. Harry is about to nod yes, but then Seamus appears from the woodwork and claps a hand down on Harry’s shoulder.

“Glad to see you’re making friends, mate, but we must be off. Still a long night ahead of us!”

“Come back another night,” says Eric, “And I’ll show you the Lindy Hop. “

Seamus starts dragging Harry away, but he shouts back to Eric, “I can’t wait!” They exit the building then, and Seamus immediately lights into Harry.

“Mate, I know you're having a good time making friends, but you're supposed to be trying to get laid. Remember, you’ve had plenty of friends these last few years, but no high quality orgasms.”

“And how do you know what kind of orgasms I’ve been having?” intones Harry. “It's my prerogative what I’m using tonight for.”

“Brah, I’m just looking out for your best interest,” soothes Seamus. “The next stop is my favorite, and I’m sure you’re going to love it as well. Much better than this dusty old dump.”

Harry frowns. “There’s good people where. What more does a place need?”

Seamus smirks. “Oh, you’ll see.” He grasps Harry’s arm above the elbow and spins on the spot to initiate Apparation. After regaining his bearings, Harry discovers that they’d landed in the middle of a very high class business district, filled with Arguers and private Healers. At the end of the row, there is a cream colored square building decorated with tasteful peacock feathers. Though in any other setting the decor would have looked tacky, it works in this situation. Seamus makes for the front door, Harry right behind.

After crossing the wooden stairs that only creaked slightly, Seamus steps up to the knocker and purposefully rapped it three times. A face is suddenly visible in the small mirror centered in the door, looking to Seamus with purpose.

“Hedonistic Haunt,” says Seamus calmly. The face grins wickedly, disappearing from the mirror. For a minute, nothing seems to happen, but then the door creaks open and Harry can make out an impeccably crisp foyer with classic black and white accents. They step inside, and two masked men approach, holding blindfolds. Harry observes Seamus let them cover his face, and doesn’t resist when they come for him next.

They are led into a room that smells of lilacs where more loud music plays. Their blindfolds are removed, and Harry makes out a large ballroom with a stage. Instead of dancing, there are tables and chairs spread out over the dance floor, and the suited attendants usher Harry and Seamus to one near the right of the stage. They are instantly brought cocktails, but Harry reaches for the water glasses present on every table to quench his thirst.

A performer is in the middle of his act onstage, and Harry feels delighted that this is a place where he can simply watch the action instead of having to join in. There’s a classic stripper pole in the middle of the stage, but this man isn’t using it. Instead, his act consists mainly of doing some version of a hula dance and shaking his scantily clad arse. Harry claps politely for him, as does the rest of the crowd, but secretly wishes for the next act to be a little bit racier.

He gets his wish. The next set of performers is five men dressed in scandalous trench coats. They saunter on stage, grinning out at the audience, only to proceed back down the stairs and stride between the guest tables provocatively. The music starts, the lights dim, and spotlights shine on each performer. Harry watches appreciatively as the men mix in some hip dance moves with their more erotic motions.

All at once, the dancers choose a member of the audience to incorporate into the act. Surprised beyond belief, Harry manages to rise when one of the performers offer him a hand. His dancer has short, curly hair and an intoxicating smile, and though Harry thought it impossible, he manages to feel at ease during his short contribution to the act. The man circles him worshipfully, raising Harry’s hand and kissing it. Harry can feel tingles shooting down his spine – it is definitely erotic how everyone stares at him jealously from the other tables. Seamus watches appreciatively. The dancer pulls Harry into a quick box step before leading him into a basic but fiery tango. Unsure of the timing, Harry is afraid of stumbling, but the man bends intimately close and whispers in Harry’s ear, “T A N G O” as he walks him backwards. To close, he dips Harry romantically before pulling him up into a short but chaste kiss. “Au revoir, monsieur,” he whispers, leading Harry to his seat.

Blushing, Harry realizes just how stimulating the short dance had been. His trousers are bulging from the hardness of his cock, and he desperately wants the adorable man to come back and incorporate a lap dance into the act. Unfortunately, the dancers rotate, and another scantily dressed man comes near their table. The song switches to a hot and heavy beat, and the dancers all whip back their trench coats to reveal bright red thongs. He can’t help seeking out his dancer and examining the man’s package, which is quite nice.

Harry’s attention is reclaimed; however, as a blonde dancer pulls out an empty chair, stands on it, and pulls open his trench coat before gyrating his pelvis against Seamus’s face. For his part, Seamus is grinning as he laps at the man’s thonged crotch with his tongue. Though Harry has seen Seamus involved in sexual acts countless times, and had even been drawing into participating in one unknowingly just an hour or so before, he can’t help but continue to be turned on. His mate is fucking hot, even though he’s a pill.

Trying not to be jealous about his tango dancer practically fucking another man’s face, Harry looks over and catches the curly haired man’s eye from across the room. He winks, and looks down knowingly. Feeling blushful, Harry smiles back at his dancer. He even manages to put an extra something into his smile – his first flirt of the night.

After their intoxicating final number, the trench coat men sway back onstage, where they bow to the very aroused crowd they’d had the pleasure of warming up. Harry can only wonder what kind of performance could best this one.

He doesn’t have to wonder long. The lights lower again to make the room even dimmer than before, and a techno electronica song begins to play as a blonde dancer purposefully strides to center stage, swinging his hips. He looks somehow familiar to Harry, but it isn’t bright enough to tell. Harry’s attraction to the man beats all else, though; the fringed leather cowboy chaps he wears make Harry’s head spin. To his utter dismay, they aren’t completely arseless. Instead, a leather belt and a row of bullets crisscross over the man’s pelvis, which is covered by a pair of thin black bottoms that only cause Harry’s mind to go into overdrive imagining what he looks like underneath.

Before he can fully sate his desire to stare all night, the man starts dancing and Harry is lost in the sensations overcoming his body. He was made to dance, this blonde, and everyone in the room knows it.

He starts off by forming the long rope he carries into a lasso, holding the coils in his left and swinging the loop around in a circle with his right. It’s an incredibly sexy movement when combined with smooth turns of his hips as he rotates back and forth to face the crowd. Harry is captivated by the man’s performance, but he isn’t anywhere near done yet. With a quick motion, he undoes the loop and flips the rope around his shoulders, holding it with both hands as he undulates, sweeping his hips back and forth. He sashays gracefully around in a circle, giving Harry a peek at the white, smooth skin of his exposed back thighs.

Seamus catches Harry’s eyes, giving him a thumbs up. This is clearly the performance he’d been excited for them to see.

Aware that gazing at Seamus is making him lose precious time watching the dancer, Harry snaps his attention back to the stage. The man is back to swinging his rope loop, but more furiously. His body moves with a natural rhythm, though less pronounced than before with the increase in pace. He still has more than enough time to ripple his thin, muscular shoulders, and some of the more effeminate men in the crowd gasp as he does so. Arms behind his head, the dancer focuses on his hips, bringing the attention back to his eye-catching display of bullets and pulsing motions. Harry isn’t the only one in the crowd wondering if the man moves the same way when he makes love.

From the change in music, Harry senses that the performance is coming to an end and feels an accompanying tinge of grief. The dance is marvelous, the sexy cowboy is marvelous, and this kind of thing should go on all night. The man turns his back to the audience one more time, fluffing his arse up as he delicately circles around. With that, he faces forward again, reaching behind him to pull out a silver pistol that Harry hadn’t even noticed and shoots it into the ceiling with a sharp bang. As he lowers his arm, Harry makes eye contact with the dancer and instantly feels his stomach drop painfully.

The dancer is Draco Malfoy.

He is barely able to process this information before Malfoy turns squarely around and strides back down the middle of the stage to the exit. Harry has a feeling this was part of his act, but wouldn’t be surprised if Malfoy is relieved to get away from him. Though he didn’t reveal his animosity towards Harry while in the final stretch of his act, it had to be hard to perform with his boyhood rival in the audience.

A stunning volume of applause interrupts Harry’s thoughts, and he enthusiastically starts clapping too.

“Wasn’t that something!” shouts Seamus from next to Harry. “I mean, it is Malfoy and all, but he is hot as fuck.”

Harry can only nod. Though Seamus brought him to see the dancers perform, he almost feels possessive of Malfoy, in a way, and especially doesn’t want to share him with Seamus. He’s seen how quickly his mate loved men and then left them.

“I have to admit, though, it feels especially satisfying to see him taken down a notch. If you would have told me while we were still at Hogwarts that Malfoy would become a stripping whore, I’d have thought you were crazy.”

Harry shakes his head. Forget about giving Seamus a couple weeks; after tonight, their friendship is over and Ron’s going to be thrilled with the good news. His former classmate fucks a different man every night and still has the nerve to judge someone else’s lifestyle choices. The double standard is making Harry sick because even if Malfoy is an exotic dancer, that doesn’t diminish his worth. It’s funny, but he doesn’t feel hatred towards Malfoy anymore. Instead, in part due to his massive erection and pounding eardrums, Harry can admit that Malfoy is attractive and incredibly good at his job.

Was it too much to hope that Malfoy didn’t hate Harry either? He thinks back to Malfoy’s performance, sure when they locked eyes at the end hadn’t been when Malfoy initially realized Harry was in the audience. Then he remembers. There was a moment near Malfoy’s first swirl where his eyebrows rose and his lips parted, almost in surprise, but he’d been able to hide his face as he turned away from the crowd. Harry is sure Malfoy noticed his presence then.

Though he never expected to meet Malfoy in a gay club, particularly one where the latter was erotically dancing, Harry decides this was enough of a coincidence that they should put the past behind them. Also, it’s a really good excuse to get away from Seamus. He starts to get up from his seat, making movements to push his chair in.

“Harry, mate. Where’re you going?”

“Er, bathroom,” Harry manages, even as he is filled with dislike for Seamus.

“Before you go, try a sip of this. It’s fantastic stuff. My friend Asten brought it.” Seamus holds out a small, silver flask not unlike the one he and Harry pre-gamed with earlier that night.

Shrugging, Harry holds out his hand and takes the flask. The liquid is clear and cool, but comes with the side effect of a numbing feeling traveling through his body.

“Pretty good, right? It has some truly interesting effects.”

“You can tell me more about it later, alright?” says Harry, running his hand through his hair in his anxiousness to get away from Seamus.

“You can count on it,” says Seamus mischievously. Harry doesn’t take the time to wonder about why he has that look on his face.

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He rushes towards the hall where Malfoy disappeared only a few minutes prior, and with relief discovers that the dressing rooms are right there. Coincidentally, the bathrooms are just across the hall. Harry decides to pop in and quickly wash his face so he wouldn’t be lying to Seamus. However Harry feels about his former friend, he isn’t comfortable being untruthful.

Rushing in, he turns on the tap and lathers up his face with soap, trying to keep it out of his hair. The water is crisp, and Harry feels ready to seek out Malfoy by the time he’s dried his face with one of the elaborate hand towels hanging around the porcelain globe sinks.

“Hey, stranger,” a voice breathes from behind him. Harry turns around to see his curly haired trench coat dancer in the middle of giving him a once over. “Care to finish what we started out there?” He steps forward, laying a hand on Harry’s cheek. “Didn’t have time to mention that you have absolutely gorgeous eyes…” The man slips his other hand behind Harry’s head and leans in for a kiss.

Completely baffled about this situation, Harry lets himself be pushed backwards into the wall as the man starts ravaging his mouth. Only when the man leans back to smile brightly at Harry does he remember his former intentions.

“No, not now, I have something I want to do,” he mumbles, trying to dislodge the stranger.

“Come on, handsome, I know you wanted me earlier. I could see it in your eyes and feel it in your body,” the man endears, running his hands back up Harry’s arms and locking him in place. “You wanted me then, why don’t you want me now?”

“Oh, I have to give you a reason?” retorts Harry, knocking the man’s hands off of his body. “I wasn’t aware that a quick dance meant that I wanted you to fuck me.”

“Oh, but it did,” the man says smoothly. Already crowding Harry against the wall, he moves even closer to prevent Harry from continuing to struggle.

Getting frustrated, Harry pulls out his wand and moves to hex the bugger. He receives an unpleasant surprise, however, when his magic doesn’t work. Trying again with increasing desperation, Harry casts five sets of spells and is flabbergasted when none of them works either.

The man smiles smugly back at Harry. “Having problems? How’d you like that taste of my special brew?”

Comprehension dawns, and Harry meets the eyes of Seamus’s friend Asten with a sinking feeling of despair.

“Cottoning on, are you?”

The situation is getting direr by the second. Not yet panicking, Harry lands a punch on Asten’s ribs and aims a knee for his crotch, desperate to escape the situation. Before he can execute his next move, Asten whips out his own wand and wordlessly binds Harry’s hands behind his back.

“Feisty one, are you? I honestly never thought you’d be this much trouble. Your friend said that you were raring to go.”

Seamus’s betrayal doesn’t hit Harry as hard as the understanding that he might be raped. He frantically thinks back to his Occulumency lessons with Snape and tries to block his mind. Maybe the potion’s effects will be blocked if he can only clear his thoughts…

Asten laughs, as if he knows exactly what Harry is trying. “You’re a witty one. Only a few others have ever had the inclination to try to counteract the potion by shielding their mind. It’s not going to save you, though. There’s only one antidote, and that’s not it.”

With that, he pushes Harry back into the wall, harder this time, and starts forcing a kiss. Harry forces his mouth closed and slams his head into Asten’s nose, which breaks instantly and starts bleeding all over the place.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Asten threatens angrily. “I was going to be gentle with you, but now you’re asking for it.”

Not bothering to heal his nose, the man proceeds to continue with the kiss that Harry interrupted before. His hands are aching from the way they’re getting pushed into the wall. He tries desperately to keep his mouth closed, but Asten just relaxes his jaw so that Harry has no choice but to let him in.

“That’s right, handsome,” whispers Asten. “Just imagine how much better it will feel when my dick’s in your mouth instead of my tongue.” The blood smears all over Harry’s face from the man’s broken nose seem to catch Asten’s eye, because he says, “We can use this too, as lube…” He starts undressing Harry, who tries to keep his face as neutral as possible even though he is living out a nightmare.

Motivated by some lurid kink, Asten reaches up to his face and covers his hands in blood, spreading it around on Harry’s back. He stands up stiff and straight, waiting for the opportunity when he can gain the upper hand.

Asten kisses his way down Harry’s chest, biting hard on his nipples and smearing blood around his torso. When he reaches Harry’s trousers, he unzips and pushes them to the floor. “Now the fun part begins, handsome,” Asten croons, rubbing his red blood into Harry’s pelvis. He bends his head and licks up Harry’s cock, from the shaft to the glans, massaging his balls lightly.

Harry isn’t able to stifle his body’s natural response to Asten’s attentions, but he fights to keep any sort of reaction off of his face. That becomes harder and harder, especially as Asten takes him full into his mouth. He is almost able to find a certain amount of pleasure in the act being done against his will, but then he feels something nudging at his entrance. Realizing that Asten’s bloody finger is about to probe him, panic overtakes Harry. The gentleness of before is over; he can feel Asten’s teeth grazing his shaft as if to remind him who is in charge. He leaves the finger there for a moment, as if enjoying Harry’s increasingly fast heartbeat, before shoving it in all at once.

Unable to keep from crying out, Harry feels another wave of helplessness sweep over him along with the pain of penetration. He tries his magic again to no avail. Desperation causes him to look around the posh bathroom and see if there is anything in sight he can possibly use as a weapon. There is a tall vase to his left, and though he can’t kick it into his attacker, he can probably get it as far as the door. Asten’s teeth scrape him again, and Harry decides to risk the broken limb. He slams his foot into the vase, aiming it towards the bathroom door, immensely grateful for wearing boots that night. It shatters rather loudly, breaking into a million pieces.

Asten stands as though he’d been burned. “A plea for help? Oh, handsome, I hate to break it Asten you, but no one can save you now.” He draws back his fist, claiming “You’re going to wish you hadn’t antagonized me, precious.”

A quick snap of his fingers and Harry finds himself tied and gagged on the ground. He tries slowing his frenzied breathing, but his attempt fails after Asten roughly kicks him in the side. There is no way to make it through this unscathed. Harry relegates himself to his unfortunate fate, finally letting the tears building for the last fifteen minutes fall. He curls up in a ball, waiting for the next blow to rain down on him.

It never comes. A huge crash erupts from the left side of the room, and Harry blearily raises his head to see Draco Malfoy, still fully costumed in his leather riding crops, standing with his wand out in the bathroom doorway after having clearly blasted his way in.

“Asten, you bastard, I know what you are,” Malfoy scowls, pointing his wand directly between the assailant’s eyes. “You really think I don’t hear you fucking unwilling men every other night? It ends now.”

“Really, Malfoy,” Asten smirks, still standing above Harry. “And what are you going to do to stop me? You realize that your job depends on your silence.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about this job,” snarls Malfoy. “And you ask ‘what will I do?’ The question really is ‘what  _won’t_ I do.’ Do you forget my upbringing, Asten? Off the top of my head I know at least seven ways to curse your cock off permanently.”

“All that fancy dancing has made you soft,” spits Asten.

“Funny, I might say the same about you.”

“Well, let’s see then, shall we, if the arrogant little Malfoy can put his money where his mouth is.” With that, the supremely unconcerned Asten draws his wand and enters a dueling stance, nose still dripping freely.

Malfoy doesn’t hesitate. Avoiding formalities, he slashes his wand through the air in a serious of swirls and flicks, sending a volley of Dark hexes and curses at Asten, who just barely manages to escape unscathed.

“What happened to the unfailing Malfoy manners?” drawls Asten in a voice seeping with honey. “Now you, like Mr. Potter, are about to learn a harsh lesson about asking for it –”

Before he can finish his sentence, Malfoy comes at him again, this time with an even more rapid burst of Dark spells. Harry can hear him muttering under his breath to ensure the magic’s potency and direction. Asten returns fire, but Harry sees that Malfoy is easily winning. In about ten more seconds, he will be at Malfoy’s mercy.

One of Malfoy’s curses lands right on Asten’s clothed genital region, but Harry is unable to note the effects because the man wraps himself in a shield of Dark magic and Disapparates. Without a trace of weariness, Malfoy sheaths his wand and glances at Harry. It is intimate, raw, and incredibly embarrassing, and all Harry wants was to sink into the floor and preferably be tranquilized. There is no way of knowing how Malfoy is going to react and no defense against him…Harry tries accessing his magic again and fails.

He needn’t have worried. Malfoy crosses the room in two long strides and sinks down on the floor next to Harry, saying nothing but dissolving the bonds. Conjuring up a small green pail, Malfoy wets a soft washrag and glances towards Harry for permission. He nods. With that, Malfoy gently pushes Harry’s hair and glasses back and begins quietly wiping his face, erasing tear tracks and sweat. After Harry’s face feels freshened, Malfoy rinses the rag and then starts rubbing down his chest, concentrating on removing all traces of Asten’s blood. As Malfoy continues, Harry relaxes, focusing on the feeling of being cleansed. He empties his mind to remove himself from the night’s events.

It isn’t until Malfoy reaches Harry’s privates that he comes back to the present moment. “Malfoy,” he croaks, unable to communicate his discomfort.

“Shh, Potter,” says Malfoy softly. He rinses the rag again, taking a second to ghost his fingers over Harry’s back. “I’ve got you.”

Mollified, Harry allows Malfoy to continue, though he tenses up as Malfoy firmly wipes his pelvis and works his way down over Harry’s cock and balls. Though Harry still feels trauma about the incident with Asten, he can see eroticism behind this experience with Malfoy. When the blonde finally reaches his pucker, what Harry felt to be his most violated place, he can’t help grunting in pain as the rag touches a wound Asten created. Malfoy sets the rag back in the pail, gently using his hands to spread Harry’s arse. Retrieving his wand, Malfoy whispers what Harry presumes to be healing spells because they aren’t ones he’s heard before. However, they are much milder than those, as they cause the least possible pain in restoring the skin.

Grateful for Malfoy’s attentions, Harry feels himself becoming more tired by the second. Malfoy is already in near proximity, so he leans over, still completely nude, and lies his head down in Malfoy’s lap.

“Potter,” Malfoy suggested, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, “Try your magic again.”

His wand isn’t in his possession and he doesn’t want to get up to look for it, but Malfoy notices the problem after a quick second and supplies Harry with his own wand. Briefly, Harry reflects on how trusting of a gesture that is before he realizes he most likely still can’t use magic. Waving the wand for a quick Levitation Charm, Harry again fails and immediately misses how the magic flows through his body. He slumps against Malfoy, defeated.

“What exactly did he say about the potion?” Malfoy inquires, continuing the massage.

Harry wants to avoid sniffling over the loss of his magic, so he looks up into Malfoy’s steel gray eyes. “I tried to counter it with Occlumency, but he said that wasn’t the antidote. He said there was only one.”

Malfoy looks thoughtful. “I can probably figure it out, Potter.”

“You always were a lot better at Potions than I was,” Harry offers weakly.

“I’m actually studying for my Mastery right now,” Malfoy reveals.

“Then why are you dancing here?”

“It’s called money, Potter,” grates Malfoy. His hand tightens in Harry’s hair, but he takes a deep breath and makes an obvious effort to calm down. “Obviously you did not read the special issue of the  _Prophet_ where they revealed the verdicts of all the former Death Eaters.”

“I try to never read the  _Prophet_ ,” says Harry apologetically. “Too much speculation and rumors.”

“Well, they got the details of my sentence correct,” sighs Malfoy. “Your testimony kept me and my mother out of Azkaban – thanks for that, by the way – but we lost most of our vaults due to the reparation costs. The Manor was confiscated because Voldemort resided there for the better part of the year.”

“Blimey, they took your house just because Voldemort lived there?” Harry seethes. “That’s complete bollocks.”

“To say the least.”

“Did every former Death Eater get charged the same amount in reparations?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says stiffly. “Fortunately, my family could pay. Those who couldn’t had to go into debt to meet the requirement. Enough about me, Potter. Let’s get you home.”

Immediately, Harry feels the tension start returning to his body. “Malfoy, wait. I need to know about this. Maybe I can help them in some way –”

“Classic Harry Potter,” Malfoy says, shaking his head. “You go through an ordeal and all you want to do is help others, some of which might not actually deserve it.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Malfoy shuts him down. “Where am I taking you?”

“Back to my flat would be fine, I guess,” Harry mumbles, tuning back in to the events of the evening.

“You’re not over this,” Malfoy warns. “Really, Potter. You have to process. You’re probably going to want to talk about it.”

“I’ve suffered much worse things in my life,” points out Harry. “I’ll be fine. Just take me home, Malfoy.”

“What’s Weasley’s address?” asks Malfoy, pointedly ignoring Harry’s request.

“My address is –”

“Potter, I didn’t ask you where your damn address is. Now, come on. Put your clothes back on and tell me where Weasley lives.”

Harry does as he’s bidden, reluctantly lifting off of Malfoy’s lap and feeling around for his clothes. Fortunately, they’re relatively unharmed. He puts them on as Malfoy subtly wipes another small blood smear off of Harry’s back, one that he somehow missed before. After Harry dresses, Malfoy grasps Harry’s hand and turns on the spot to Dissaparate them away.

Outside of Graham Place, Ron and Hermione’s charming little cottage, Harry tries to ditch Malfoy on the sidewalk leading up to the door. “Thanks for everything, Malfoy, but I’m fine to –”

“Potter, you’re most certainly not fine. I can see through that little act you’re putting on. After six years antagonizing you at Hogwarts, don’t you think I can tell your moods apart with ease?”

Grumbling, Harry begins stamping up Ron and Hermione’s walk. He stops in the middle, turning around to face Malfoy again. “Malfoy, really. I can make it to the door just fine on my own.”

“Yes, Potter, I am well aware of your capability to walk into Weasley’s house.”

“It’s the Granger-Weasley house.”

“Potter, I don’t care whose house it is. I’m seeing you walk through that door.”

Frustrated, Harry ran his hands through his hair. “But Malfoy, if I go up there myself, Ron and Hermione won’t know anything’s wrong, and I’d like to keep it that way!”

“That’s exactly why I’m accompanying you to the door,” says Malfoy smoothly. “You need your friends more than anything right now.”

“How would you know?”

Malfoy’s face turns – if possible – slightly more pale. “You forget who I had living in my house for a year, Potter. It wasn’t all fun and games for me.”

Feeling slightly faint, Harry stammers, “You mean…Voldemort…”

“No, Merlin no, not the Dark Lord,” Malfoy says, looking revolted. “Some of the other Death Eaters, though it could have been a lot worse –”

There’s a noise from the house, and both Harry and Malfoy spin around to see what’s going on. Ron has burst out the front door and is running down the path towards them. They spare each other a quick glance, a look of solidarity, before turning their attention to him.

“Harry, mate, what’s going on? Why are you with Malfoy? And why is Malfoy dressed like  _that_?” Malfoy still wore his leather riding crops, and though Harry was partial to them, Ron was unlikely to agree.

“Just ran into Malfoy on my trip out,” Harry recounts. “He wanted to come over and make amends.”

The look on Malfoy’s face makes his babysitting slightly more tolerable, but just barely. Recovering quickly, Malfoy smoothly turns the situation to his advantage by smiling at Ron and purring, “That’s right, Weasley, and if you and I could just talk privately for a moment, I have a few things I’d like to say.”

“Hermione’s making lasagna,” says Ron pointedly, glancing at Harry. “Maybe you could see if she needs a little help?”

Aiming an iron glare at Malfoy, Harry departs to the house, shaking his head on the way there. Malfoy never used to be such a meddler.

After Harry disappears into the house, Ron whirls back to Malfoy, demanding, “What’s wrong with Harry? I know you’re not here to apologize to me, Malfoy.”

“Actually,” drawls Malfoy, leaning back slightly to accentuate his attire, “I would like to say I’m sorry, Weasley, for the way I treated you at school. I’m on my way to making amends with Potter and I daresay I’ll be seeing more of you in the near future.”

Like a fish, Ron’s mouth gapes for a minute, but then he closes his jaw and makes an active effort to be more mature. “Apology accepted. For what it’s worth, Malfoy, I’m sorry for the things I said and did as well. Unless you hurt Harry, that is. Then you better believe we’ll be enemies again.”

Malfoy nods. “Naturally, Weasley. I’ll be speaking to your wife as well, on the next occasion we meet face to face.”

“That’s very big of you, Malfoy.”

“Well, Weasley, circumstances change. You can suddenly find yourself on common ground with someone you once hated.”

“Why are you and Harry on common ground?” Ron inquires.

“Old wounds can sometimes form a connection, a bond,” Malfoy says quietly, giving Ron a serious look.

“Oh, Merlin, I told him not to go out with Seamus tonight! You were there, right?”

“I was,” says Malfoy noncommittally.

“Malfoy – don’t be a prat. What’s happened to Harry?”

Malfoy sighs. “It’s not my secret to tell, Weasley, but he needs you now more than ever.”

“Seriously, Malfoy,” says Ron, exasperated. “I am not reading between the lines. What’s happened and how can I help my best friend?”

Under his breath, Malfoy mutters a vague insult. “Weasley. I would tell you, but I’m not about to violate Potter’s trust again tonight. Go in there and give him what he wants and what you think he needs.” With that, he meets Ron’s eyes and gives a significant nod before Disapparating with a sharp  _crack_.

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“Ruddy git,” scoffs Ron, looking at the spot where Malfoy had disappeared. “Since when has Malfoy ever cared about Harry’s trust?” He stumps back into the house, where Harry and Hermione are happily making a key lime pie, having already put the lasagna in the oven.

“Alright, mate?” he ventures, nicking a taste of the pie filling. Merlin, Hermione’s improved drastically in the kitchen since Harry started helping her cook Saturday night dinners.

“Never been better,” Harry declares, zesting a lime. “Did Malfoy give you a nice, sincere apology?”

“Actually,” Ron says. “He did. I expected it to be full of eloquent words that didn’t really mean anything, but he just came right out and said it.”

“I expect mine’s in the mail,” Hermione says darkly, folding the last of the whipped cream into the blended lime juice and condensed milk.

“Mione, he promised that when he sees you next, he’ll give you yours, too.”

“Has he been concussed by a Bludger?” she asks innocently.

“Not to the best of my knowledge,” interjects Harry. “Me and him – we’ve cleared a few things up.”

“Sure didn’t look like it by the way you glared at him on the way in,” notes Ron, narrowly avoiding another death glare from Harry.

“Malfoy’s always been a little too interfering for his own good,” Harry admonishes.

Ron laughed. “I’m sure you can think of about eighty separate occasions where he has been, right mate?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Harry, stung.

“It means, Harry, that you’ve always had a bit of an obsession with Malfoy,” explains Hermione reasonably.

“Well, he has no reason to nag and worry,” grumbles Harry. “Isn’t that right, Ron? Or did he start giving cryptic hints after I went inside?”

“Should we be worried, mate?” asks Ron worriedly. “He did seem a little out of sorts…at least, for Malfoy.”

“What does he have to be cryptic about, Harry?” queries Hermione. “Did anything happen tonight that you want to talk about?”

“No, nothing happened! He’s just trying to get me riled up, is all,” Harry explains, trying to keep his hands from curling into fists.

“Well, we’re here for you, mate, if there’s anything at all,” Ron ventures gently.

“I know that!” thunders Harry. “But nothing’s wrong!” He throws down the dishtowel and runs up the stairs to the guest room, debating whether or not he should leave. Apparating to his own flat would be to deny Malfoy, who’d worked so hard to make sure he stayed at Ron and Hermione’s tonight. Harry stands, pacing back and forth around the room. In the end, he collapses back on the bed, because he can’t bring himself to disobey Malfoy’s advice after the latter went through such pains to help him.

Deciding to beat away some of the weariness overtaking him, Harry drifts off into an uneasy sleep. He’s soon nudged awake, however, by the sensation of Asten’s teeth on his cock. Remembering the bodily intrusion that came next causes Harry’s hazy mind to create phantom pain, essentially forces him to relive the afternoon’s anguish. Unable to hold back, he screams, trying to wipe the memory of Asten’s blood off of his skin. The covers end up wildly tangled, and Ron and Hermione race up the stairs only to burst into the room as Harry trying to scrub his back with one of the tiny decorative pillows.

“Harry!” Hermione screams, launching herself at him. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

He can only sob and cling to her, desperately hoping for her to soothe him in the same way Malfoy had earlier. Eventually she stops asking questions, and Ron leaves the room to return with a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. They say nothing, realizing that Harry won’t talk about what happened; can’t talk about what happened. He allows Hermione to give him some Dreamless Sleep Potion after Ron’s coaxed him to eat some soup, and lies down with relief to the thought of falling into nothingness.

After Harry’s finally fallen into a deep sleep, Ron and Hermione exit the room and look worriedly at one another.

“Ron, what exactly did Malfoy say when he talked to you earlier today?”

“I dunno, he was talking about how Harry’s trust had already been violated and he wasn’t about to make it worse or something,” Ron remembers, squinting up his face in concentration.

“Where did they come from? Who was Harry with?” asks Hermione pointedly, gazing impatiently back at Ron.

“Well, me and Harry were having drinks last night with Seamus. Harry finally agreed to a night out at the gay bars, and Seamus looked like he was in all his glory. Next I hear of it is Malfoy bringing Harry home, dropping copious hints about Harry’s wellbeing!”

“And you somehow didn’t think to mention all of this to me?” Hermione hisses, stomping over to the Floo.

“Er, no,” says Ron guiltily, looking around the room for help that’s unable to come.

“Drury Lane!” calls Hermione in a clear voice, placing her head in the fire.

“Really, he calls his place ‘Drury Lane?’” snorts Ron, shaking his head. “Why don’t you ask for a muffin while you’re over there, Hermione? I bet his house is filled with loads of them.”

Hermione pulls her head out long enough to snap at Ron, “I knew I never should have read you muggle nursery rhymes!”

“Dreary Lane would be more appropriate,” shudders Ron, settling down next to Hermione. He wanted a front row seat to what was sure to be an intense confrontation with Malfoy.

“Yes?” Malfoy’s posh voice rang out in the room, even with echoing through the fireplace. Even while speaking just one syllable, the git had perfect enunciation.

“Hello, Malfoy, says Hermione calmly. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better, thanks,” returns Malfoy, deathly polite. “I believe I owe you an apology, Granger. I am incredibly sorry for the cruel things that I said and did to you back at Hogwarts.”

Hermione’s surprise is obvious to both Ron and Malfoy. “I apologize, as well. I definitely did not treat you with as much kindness as I could have, nor did I handle certain situations with good grace.”

“Water under the bridge,” says Malfoy breezily. “I presume that you’re calling about Potter?”

“I am,” confirms Hermione. “Do you know what’s got him in such a right state?”

“I do,” concedes Malfoy. “Did your husband not relay our earlier conversation to you? I told him Potter did not want either of you to know of today’s events and that I would not be the one to break his trust again.”

“You say again as though it’s already been broken,” affirms Hermione.

“Perhaps,” says Malfoy, intentionally vague.

“How are we supposed to help him if we don’t know what’s wrong?”

“Granger, to tell you the truth, you and Weasley probably wouldn’t be able to help him even if you did know what was wrong.”

Hermione’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “I thought we made up, Malfoy. Now you’re telling me that my husband and I aren’t competent enough to care for our best friend?”

“We did make up, Granger. I’m telling you that not everything can be magically fixed. There are some wounds that go a lot deeper and can’t be reached no matter what you do to help; the person can only recover in their own time. Do you not remember the War?”

“Of course I remember the War,” says Hermione, biting back. “But I honestly believe that a good grasp of a situation and background knowledge about the condition one suffers from is the foundation to solving the problem.”

“Not all conditions can be diagnosed and handled in an interchangeable fashion,” snarls Malfoy, fighting once again to keep his temper under control.

“Well, if you’re so bound and determined to keep us out, why don’t you come and take care of Harry then?” Hermione demands.

“By no means am I trying to deter you from helping Harry!” shouts Malfoy. “I’m simply unwilling to tell you what happened because he  _does not want you to know_. When he is damn well good and ready, then he’ll tell you!”

Hermione pulls her head out of the fireplace to exchange a thunderstruck look with Ron before dipping back in to return to the conversation.

“Furthermore, Granger, I was planning to follow up with Potter tomorrow,” snaps Malfoy, looking highly affronted. “I thought you and Weasley were competent enough to keep him comfortable for one night.” He gave her a menacing glare.

“He’s comfortable; or rather, he can’t be uncomfortable because we gave him Dreamless Sleep,” Hermione squeaks. “We just want to make sure we’re not making it worse, whatever it is. See, Harry usually tells us everything. It’s strange to try and help him when he’s acting so strangely and keeps insisting there’s nothing wrong.”

“Understood, but you have to do what’s best for Potter and not what’s best for you, Malfoy rationalizes. “Acknowledge his pain, but don’t pretend like there’s some kind of quick fix or solution because he has to work through it himself.”

He finally gets through to her, because Hermione nods in agreement. “Thanks, Malfoy. That actually helps a lot. Of course we want to be there for Harry, and now at least we have a few tools to do that.”

“I’ll send Potter a note tomorrow,” Malfoy reassures her. “It might seem strange, but we’re on decent terms now. I’ve been through a similar situation, and Potter might be able to relate to me better.”

“We’re both okay with you too, Malfoy – Ron and I – if you can help Harry. Also, the apologies go a long way.”

“Glad to hear it, Granger. If Potter wakes up, don’t give him any more Dreamless Sleep. I don’t want to take any chance that he might become addicted to the stuff.”

“Good night, Malfoy.”

“Goodbye, Granger.”

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Ron and Hermione check on Harry one more time before they go to sleep, observing that he’s sleeping dreamlessly as promised. They head to their bedroom, knowing there’s nothing more they can do for him tonight.

Harry wakes up the next morning at 5am with the taint of Asten’s touch contaminating his body, and it’s all he can do to not to scream and yell for Malfoy. His brave, bold savior…wasn’t it a hoot that the Savior needed saved. The Savior had  _been_ saved yesterday. If Malfoy hadn’t shown up in the nick of time, he knows he would be stuck with worse memories from a more traumatic experience. Part of him wishes that Malfoy came sooner, but the other part thanks him for coming at all.

He can’t sleep any more. The bed confines him, scratches his skin, turns his body into a visceral object. He wonders why Asten had to target him. There were so many others in that ballroom, drooling over his erotic dancing. Seamus may have tipped Asten off the second time he sought him out, but he knows in his heart that Asten selected him from the crowded room for a reason. Maybe it was the fame factor and maybe it wasn’t.

He finds he’s still dressed in yesterday’s clothing. Good. That saves him the trouble of tiptoeing around his best friends’ house: Malfoy already had them much too worried about him. He quickly writes a note for Ron and Hermione and sets it on their coffee maker because even before going on a rescue mission, Ron has to have his caffeine. He tests another Levitating Charm and isn’t even dismayed to find out that it still doesn’t work. Doing magic might not be in his best interest right now anyway.

Memories of muggle travel and money exchanges with Arthur Weasley guide him to the bus stop, where he buys a one way ticket to an intersection a block away from his flat. The early morning riders are quiet, but he can only hear the mad mumblings of a homeless man on the back of the bus. Vaguely, he wonders how many times the man has been raped. From what he’s heard, assault happens a lot to people who live on the street.

The word “raped” creeps him out. He doesn’t like classifying what happened to him as rape. Until now, he thought women were really the only ones raped. With the few male rape cases he’s heard of, a lot of people laughed and said that men couldn’t be raped. Even after experiencing sexual assault, he still loathes calling it rape and thinks that it would be better categorized as a “violation.” At least for him. Because now he knows the emptiness that comes with the sensation of something being taken from him, he knows how hard it is to think of anyone else ever touching him sexually again, and he knows how his identity feels lost. He isn’t “Harry” anymore – he just is. He is an object representative of the male gender. His thoughts come faster but less coherent, and he struggles to realize what’s happening to him. Breathing rapidly, he can’t calm down. Tears prickle his eyes, and before he can control his emotions, he’s sobbing with long tear trails running down his face.

Someone’s touching his hand, but he’ll be damned if he can open his eyes right now and face a concerned do-gooder. He tries taking deep breaths, and they seem to have the calming effect everyone always says they have. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes and sees the old homeless man from the back of the bus stroking his hand. The man’s eyes are kind, so he smiles a watery smile at him by means of a thank you. He understands that the man’s touch probably helped him regain control. He’s patted on the shoulder once, twice, and then the man walks to his seat. Looking back, he sees him returning to an overfilled backpack and a small carton of food.

Though the bus is still moving, he can’t be buggered about safety at a time like this. He launches himself out of his seat and practically runs back to the man, shedding his coat, shirt, and pants, folding them to the best of his ability and handing them to the man. He also digs out all the muggle money he has – about $75 – and thrusts it at him. The driver skids the bus to a halt and yells out words pertaining to his near nudity, his violation of safety requirements; he doesn’t care. He yanks on the emergency door handle and shoots out of the bus, fortunately only three blocks from his flat. His boxers cover enough, and though it’s cold outside, he’s numb and can’t feel anything as he jogs the rest of the way home.

He’s suddenly exhausted as he opens his front door and doesn’t have it in him to trudge up to the second floor and get into his bead. Instead, he opts for crashing on the couch, snatching one of Mrs. Weasley’s crocheted afghans to cover up with. He sleeps peacefully, content from his minimal interaction with the homeless man. When he wakes again it’s 10am, and he’s thankful to have gotten more rest, because he has the niggling feeling that, for a while, it’s going to be hard for him to sleep easy. There’s a knocking at the window, and he practically jumps out of his skin with the anticipation that it’s Asten coming back for him. Summoning courage, he looks for the source of the noise, and is relieved to see it’s just an owl. He walks to the window and lets the owl in. It’s snowy white and reminds him of Hedwig. Before a lump can form in his throat, he takes the scroll and quickly reads it.

_Dear Harry,_

_I’ve attached a potion I’m 99% sure is antidote to the poison. You should take it right away before you become used to living like a muggle. Know that nothing can take your identity away from you, not even a viciously cruel assailant. Reclaim your power – both magical and otherwise – and don’t shut out Weasley and Granger._

_I’ll be checking on you shortly._

_Yours,_

_Draco_

He nearly laughs. The Malfoy who rescued him yesterday already feels like a mirage, a fantasy cooked up by his damaged brain. In this world, he hates Malfoy and Malfoy hates him, and that’s the way it is. One incident isn’t going to be enough to change things, so there’s no use pretending that is has. Deciding that Malfoy needs a deterring response, he writes:

_Malfoy,_

_Thanks for your concern. I appreciate what you did for me yesterday, but we were never friends. You can bugger off now._

_Potter_

 It feels almost foreign to sign his name again. Potter is the person he used to be, but isn’t sure he wants to be anymore. Without reading over the letter, he roughly curls it back up and attaches it to the owl’s leg. Before he can talk himself out of it, he retrieves the antidote from the accompanying small golden pouch and drains it, loathe to let Malfoy’s hard work go to waste. The effect is immediate: he feels power rushing through his veins, reorienting him to a part of himself he didn’t know was missing. It’s almost like coming home after a hard day at work. Damn it if Malfoy isn’t right again.

For shits and giggles, he turns his attention to the Levitating Charm, certain that it will work. He isn’t disappointed. The potency of his magic overwhelms him, and he’s astounded by how the couch shoots up and nearly knocks the light fixture off of the ceiling. Did Malfoy put a special ingredient inside of that brew? He’s almost tempted to send another note and ask.

No matter. He’s not planning to go back to actually  _using_ his magic, at least not right away. He is managing just fine the muggle way, and hell if it’s not refreshing to take a little break from being a wizard. A small part of his heart begs to differ, argues that he’s afraid to use magic again because the ability was lost when it could have saved him from a traumatic situation. He shoves that opinion down, suffocating it. It’s irrelevant.

He thinks he’ll go to work today. Working on Sunday has never bothered him before, and now it’s a welcome change from the thoughts circulating around in his head he isn’t compelled to address. Shrugging on a pair of jeans and a random shirt, he takes the train to the Leaky Cauldron, where he accesses the entrance to Diagon Alley. In the year after the War, he’d longed for a new project and so he started a membership based dueling club in the building adjacent to  _Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes_. Members could come to  _Wandmaster: A Dueling Club_  simply to practice with a partner of an equal or better skill level, tutor beginners, or simply watch, offering comments or having conversations about technique. Ron and Hermione taught lessons every Tuesday and Thursday, but he’d also roped several of the DA into also helping out. His own appearances at  _Wandmaster_  were far more varied. He’d tried a set schedule like his friends, but soon realized that the member base would only show up on the days he was there.

Usually, he’d give demonstrations or offer lectures focused on the finer points of dueling, but today he is only willing to offer commentary. He sits in the stands, watching two young Hogwarts students practice some of the easier techniques. One of them casts “ _Serpensortia_ ” and he’s drawn back to his first duel, the one with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy’s face gets stuck in his head, and suddenly it’s impossible to see anything but. Deciding a glass of water will help clear his thoughts, he heads towards the kitchen. There are other students running down the hallway, older ones. He briefly thinks about how they’re breaking Club protocol by putting others in danger, but doesn’t have time to react before one calls out “ _Incarcerous_!”

The presumed target is missed and he ends up getting hit with the spell. Even wandlessly it’s a simple counter for a wizard of his caliber, but before he can break free, memories of Asten attacking him become real once more. The sudden confinement triggers the horrible sensations of blood running down his back, Asten’s sharp teeth gliding over his cock, and rough penetration being done against his will. It’s not enough that he’s in a familiar atmosphere because he can see the starch white walls of the bathroom and smell irony metal. Hands touch his lower back and he freaks out, thrashing around in his bindings. Tears stream down his face and drip onto the ropes, but he couldn’t be more unaware. He’s hyper sensitive to those witnessing his confinement, concerned about what they’re planning to do to him.

“Potter,” a soft male voice says.

He can’t focus; there’s too much light, all around him it’s too bright and it’s impossible to breathe.

“ _Relashio_ ,” commands the man.

The ground is cool and welcoming, and he willingly sinks down into the darkness.

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When he regains consciousness, there’s a blurry fog over his head and it takes a minute to realize he’s not at home in his own flat. Instead, he’s lying on a dark gray couch in the middle of a small but modernly decorated living room, with bookshelves lining the walls and a cherry wood desk adjacent to the open window where a cool breeze flows through. He stands and peers outside, taking in the grassy yard and tastefully arranged flower gardens. There are fresh herbs and vegetables neatly lined up in pots on the windowsill and he breathes deeply, remembering Molly Weasley’s own hearty supply that Ron always complains are stinking up the place.

“You’re up,” says a voice behind him.

He spins around, taking in the ever-so-slightly ruffled Draco Malfoy in a pair of blue jeans and a simple t shirt. As if that isn’t strange enough, he’s also wearing a light green apron and holding a spatula. He didn’t even know Malfoy was capable of cooking, let alone getting sweaty from the hard work entailed to make food the muggle way.

Still drowsy, his brain-mouth filter isn’t working yet. “What  _are_ you wearing,” he asks, looking befuddled as if trying to figure Malfoy out.

“Any more stupid questions and you won’t be eating any of the delicious treacle tart I just made,” retorts Malfoy, swishing off back into the kitchen.

He takes that as an invitation to follow and is immediately glad he did because the scents are amazing. Malfoy’s using a thin wooden board to slide a cheese pizza with fresh tomato and basil out of the oven, and he can see the treacle tart baking merrily inside. There’s also fresh tossed salad where he notices several of Malfoy’s window plants making a star appearance.

“You eat pizza?” he croaks, filter still not reactivated. “Isn’t that too plebian for you?”

“Oh dear, Potter,” sighs Malfoy dramatically, “You must lack confidence in my cooking skills, because now I’m going to have to eat all the treacle tart myself.”

“Er, forget I said anything,” he says, kicking himself. The tart looks perfectly crumbly and delectable, and he’s still staring at it from outside the lit oven door.

“Sit down already, would you? Actually, why don’t you make yourself useful and get out some silverware and salad dressing?” orders Malfoy, cutting the pizza.

He regretfully stops eyeballing the tart and finds Malfoy’s silverware drawer on the first try. “Right. Why exactly do we need silverware for pizza?”

“That’s how I keep it from becoming a plebian meal, Potter. You surely wouldn’t expect me to eat it with my hands?”

“Malfoy, at this point I don’t know what to expect from you,” he admits, carding his hand through his hair.

“Try the pizza, it’s excellent,” says Malfoy, neatly dodging his response. “You do like fresh basil, right? As Mother always said, a meal without herbs is the sign of an unrefined palate.”

“I love basil, actually,” he admits, grabbing two forks and one knife before turning his attention to the fridge for salad dressing, where he finds dark vinaigrette in a mason jar.

“You’ll love this, then.” Malfoy sets down plates with neatly cut squares of pizza on the table. “I tried a couple new cheeses today so you’ll have to let me know how they all mix together,” he adds, sitting down in a chair and snatching up a napkin.

He sits down across from Malfoy, helping himself to a few pieces of pizza and a generous helping of salad. As he picks up his first piece with his hand, Malfoy eyes him almost distastefully and cuts up his own pizza into neat bites with his knife and fork. He smiles. Malfoy’s changed a bit, but some things always stay the same.

His taste buds almost implode with the first bite of pizza because Malfoy’s done such a fantastic job, and he can feel his eyes actually closing in pleasure. “You made this without magic?”

“Yes,” Malfoy affirms, looking slightly wary.

“It’s bloody amazing,” he praises, taking another enormous bite. “God, Malfoy, I can’t believe that you didn’t use magic.”

“I may have incorporated a magic ingredient,” says Malfoy, smiling mischievously. “But no actual magic.”

“Whatever you did, keep it up. You could literally sell this.”

Nervously wringing his hands, Malfoy looks down. “After Mother moved to France and I started my Potions mastery, I had to make some living adjustments. My Potions skills were really transferable to cooking.”

“Makes sense,” he nods. “I learned to cook when I was a kid, but never really enjoyed it. 

“You never did seem to like Potions,” snickers Malfoy.

“Yeah, but that’s partially because Snape was always a prat about everything,” he huffs, leaning over to spear another piece of pizza.

“Oh, admit it, Potter. You’d much rather be out cursing someone or teaching youngsters the proper techniques.”

“Definitely. It’s so rewarding, to see the looks on their faces when they finally get the spells down,” he says enthusiastically, poking at the salad. “You’d actually be a pretty good instructor too, Malfoy, if you’re ever up for it. Can you pass the dressing?”

Malfoy reaches over, but his sleeve accidentally snags the cheese grater, causing his hand to bump the vinaigrette and knock it over. Before he can quite register what he’s doing, the salad dressing is zooming back into the jar, his magic neatly eviscerating any spills or stains. He’s broken his pledge not to use magic, and wandlessly at that.

Malfoy, however, smiles brilliantly and passes the dressing without incident. “It’s all yours, Potter.”

He can’t get enough of Malfoy’s delicious dishes. By the time dessert rolls around, he’s unable to eat another bite. “Want to take a little walk or something before dessert?”

“You don’t want to try the tart now?” asks Malfoy, almost looking disappointed.

“Malfoy, if I eat another bite I will literally explode.”

“Hmm, I’m not so sure walking’s such a good idea then. I heard about what happened to your Aunt Marge, back in third year…”

He laughs, standing up to help Malfoy clear the table. “Have no fear; I won’t blow either of us up.”

“It is kind of nice outside,” Malfoy admits. “I don’t get out nearly enough.”

“Let’s go,” he says, waving his wand to put away the remaining dishes. Hell, he almost feels like himself again, being around Malfoy.

They exit the apartment after Malfoy takes great pains to lock the door from the outside the muggle way, and continue down the road. Malfoy has a nice plot of land with more vegetable gardens in the back. He can almost see Malfoy out there getting dirty in the garden, wearing a wide brimmed hat to keep the sun off of his pale nose.

Only halfway down the road, the silence becomes almost awkward and he feels compelled to say something, to make Malfoy understand. “Erm, Malfoy?”

“Yes, Potter?”

There’s a wooden bench only about ten feet away, so he crosses over and sits down. It looks out over a grassy knoll bright with beautiful magnolia trees, sunlight streaming through the branches. Malfoy sits down next to him so they’re barely brushing elbows, but he rotates around, sitting cross-legged in order to face Malfoy.

“I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” he blurts out, nervously meeting Malfoy’s eyes. “I don’t know what I was thinking, going to the Club today. It seemed like I was fine, but then in an instance, I wasn’t.”

Malfoy nods, revealing crackling steel gray eyes. “I had some words with those little brats running around rampant,” he discloses with no trace of regret. “I had the feeling that you were going to bite off more than you could chew today.”

“Thanks,” he says, chuckling self-deprecatingly. A trace of understanding flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, and he holds up his hand to clarify, but it isn’t necessary. “No, Malfoy, it’s fine. I know how I am.”

“I can see you’re trying to work through it now, though,” Malfoy offers, turning sideways and crossing his legs as well.

“No choice, if I ever want to function normally again,” he admits, carding his hand through his hair again. “It’s definitely not the most comfortable thing I’ve done, but I at least feel like you understand.”

“That’s because I do understand, Potter,” says Malfoy slowly.

He hesitates. They seem to have bonded, but he doesn’t want to ask something too personal and risk Malfoy running away. “Can I ask what happened to you? I know you mentioned the Death Eaters, but we were interrupted –”

Malfoy takes a deep breath, looking away for a moment. “During that year when he wasn’t out recruiting giants, Macnair would visit my quarters at the Manor. He’d bring Yaxley with him, though Yaxley never sought me out himself. Father was no longer in the Dark Lord’s good favor, so he couldn’t do anything to protect me.”

It’s difficult to meet Malfoy’s eyes but he does it, because he can imagine just how vulnerable Malfoy must still feel.

“First they’d make me dance for them,” Malfoy says quietly. “I was expected to know how beforehand – Macnair would simply conjure the pole – so I did research to be prepared. He was reluctant to hurt me, but he would if I wasn’t meeting his expectations.”

He closes his eyes, not sure he wants to hear the end of this story. Malfoy waits for him to open them again before continuing. “They’d share me after, each taking his turn while the other looked on. I was at least lucky to never be forcibly hurt; they always prepared me well.”

 Unsure what to say, he looks at Malfoy. “Malfoy, I’m so sorry. That sounds much worse than what happened to me –”

“Potter, let’s recognize our experiences individually instead of comparing them. My rape isn’t automatically more traumatic than yours just because it was taken farther.”

He nods. “You’re trying to avoid invalidating my experience?”

“Yes, exactly. Sexual assault can take a lot of different forms, and I think it’s important to recognize them all as valid.”

“If I might ask,” he ventures, “What happened to bring about such inclusive behavior? You were never quite so…accepting.”

Malfoy closes his eyes. “An overheard conversation. One between a father and son where the boy admitted he’d been forced into something and the father told him that only women were taken against their wills. In the same breath, he first insinuated that men can’t be raped, and then implied that if they are, well their status is equal to a woman’s. Because, of course, women are automatically worth less than men.”

“Jeez, Malfoy, that’s pretty deep,” he whispered while trying not to think of how the poor boy could possibly overcome his experience.

“Actually, Potter, it’s really not. Once you pay attention to the way language operates, it’s pretty easy to see how power and privilege are reinscribed through microaggressions.”

“So you have moved past all of that blood purity nonsense?” he ventures courageously, looking Malfoy dead in the eyes.

Malfoy stares back just as intently. “I have. I've definitely become more inclusive because it would be pretty hypocritical of me to challenge the status quo in one regard while upholding it in another.”

Feeling emboldened, he persisted in asking the difficult questions. “How long did it take you to come to terms with what happened? Have you, er, dated anyone since then?”

“It took me a long time to work through it,” Malfoy says wearily. “Mother and Father were the only ones who knew what happened, but they were incredibly uncomfortable talking about anything to do with the year the Dark Lord spent in our home. Their idea of helping was to suggest a trip to the therapist.”

“I can’t imagine that went over well,” he empathized, peeling at a small piece of loose wood. “Seems like the opposite of what would help me.”

“Some find it useful,” Malfoy agreed. “But I didn’t like the idea. I refused to go and dealt with it alone. In answer to your second question, no, I haven’t dated.” His eyes seem to soften, and he flat out says, “I had not found anyone I wanted to share myself with since then.”

The moment between them is charged, alive with excitement but also fear. He gently ghosts his fingers down Malfoy’s exposed arm, caressing his Marked underarm.

“But I took my power back all the same,” Malfoy continues, relaxing the slightest hair at the soft touch. “I decided to go for my Mastery even though I couldn’t pay for it outright; I had the NEWTS and the passion for it. After a semester mindlessly sorting ingredients for minimal pay, I chose to dance at clubs. I put the skillsets I learned to my own advantage, now.”

He can’t help but look at this man and feel inspired, because against all odds, Draco Malfoy’s turned his life around. His heart fills with warmth and he can’t help but want to share pieces of himself in return.

“I don’t know how I can possibly do that,” he confesses, dropping his eyes to a leaf on the ground. “Not about skillsets, but with taking the power back. I don’t feel like myself anymore, Malfoy.”

“How come?” Malfoy asks, following his gaze to the cement pathway.

“I dunno, it feels like he – Asten – took something from me.”

“Want me to enlighten you with some more of my newfound knowledge?” asks Malfoy, looking up to meet his eyes once more.

“Please,” he nearly begs, wishing more than anything for the numbness to fully retreat.

“You were victimized, but nothing was taken from you,” Malfoy explains, calming his confusion with a simple hand gesture. “Your identity is not based on the act of sex. Sexuality and the expression of sexuality are a part of your identity, but by no means do they fully comprise it.”

Confusion must still show on his face, because Malfoy says, “Hmm, I’m doing a rather poor job of explaining this. Alright, think of the concept of virginity. We always talk about ‘losing’ our virginity the first time we have sex – though sex can be defined in several different ways, but I digress – like it’s something that can be taken or given at will. Instead, it’s a conceptualization. We use it to define worth but in reality, your identity stays the same whether or not you’re a virgin. You’re still you, Potter. You feel like something is lost, but truthfully, you’re as whole as you ever were.”

He’s touched. What Malfoy said not only comforts him, but makes sense. He’s not any less of a person because Asten (and Seamus, for that matter) chose to use him as an object. Tears well in his eyes, but he blinks and lets them openly spill down his face. Malfoy reaches out and wipes them away, seemingly unable to help himself.

“Any other demons you want to talk about, Potter?” Malfoy whispers.

“Call me Harry,” he whispers back. “That’s my name.”

“Only if you call me Draco,” Malfoy murmurs, “Because that’s mine.”

“Deal,” Harry agrees, running his fingers over Draco’s Marked arm again. In response, Draco caresses his face, and Harry thinks that Draco is going to kiss him. But instead, he gracefully initiates a hug to which Harry responds eagerly. Disappointed, he buries his face in the crook between Draco’s shoulder and neck, holding tightly to the blonde man while resisting the urge to nuzzle in. He hasn’t been able to fully process much of what Draco said, especially the part about dating, but this is no longer the time or place for deep reflection.

“Do you want to continue the walk, or go back for treacle tart?” Draco asks huskily, tentatively running his fingers through Harry’s chestnut curls.

“Hmm,” Harry pretends to think, trying not to let on how good it feels when Draco touches him. “Well, treacle tart is only my absolute favorite food in the whole world.”

Draco laughs, pulling away enough to look Harry in the eye. “I can see you’re ready for dessert, then. Let’s go back.”

They stand, and Harry says, “I actually wouldn’t mind finishing the walk.” He gives Draco a serious but meaningful look.

“If you’re sure,” hedges Draco, becoming almost shy.

“I am,” declares Harry, grabbing Draco’s hand and starting off back down the road. “So how far along are you on your Potions Mastery anyway?”

Drawn back into thought, Draco answers, “I’m two years in with one more to go. But next semester will actually be pretty exciting because I get to start teaching.”

“You’re going to be teaching?” Harry smirks. “Boy, do I feel sorry already for your students.”

“Hey!” exclaims Draco, pretending to be miffed. “I’ll have you know that I’m a great instructor.”

“Please,” snorts Harry. “You’re a perfectionist. Since you were nearly at the top of our class, I’m sure you got ‘O’s on everything. The first time you have to give out an ‘A’ or below, I bet you assign the kid remedial potions.”

They pass a creek and Draco mimes pushing Harry in. The next second, he’s unfortunate enough to trip over a branch and go sprawling in face first as Harry laughs himself into hysterics.        

“The only one deserving of remedial potions is you, Potter!” Draco bawls, soaking in muddy creek water.

Shaking his head, Harry continues laughing, bending over to put his hands on his knees because he’s entirely short of breath. With his peripheral vision, he sees something dark coming toward him, but it doesn’t fully register until it hits him in the side with a dull  _whack_.

“Throwing mudcakes, Malfoy?” he crows gleefully, Vanishing the lot with his wand while Draco extracts himself from the creek, muttering darkly under his breath all the while. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

“No way, residue will be permanently stuck in my hair then,” Draco answers, looking revolted.

They start back to the flat, Draco squishing with every step and Harry flushing hard from trying to control his chuckles. At one point, he breaks out into mirthful giggles again, and Draco rewards him with a muddy handprint in the middle of his back. Harry can’t be too chuffed about it though, because this is the most undone he’s ever seen Draco Malfoy.

Harry volunteers to unlock the door because it’s a pristine shade of white and he can see Draco having an anxiety attack if mud is allowed to mark the perfect paint job. It looks done by hand, an observation further evidence of how Draco made dinner the muggle way.

“You can just help yourself to some tart,” says Draco briskly, conjuring up some plastic covers for his feet to avoid trekking mud all over the floor.

“Don’t you want some too?” asks Harry, looking genuinely distressed. “I have no idea how anyone could pass up a good treacle tart.”

“Actually,” says Draco, swiping at his neck with a hand towel, “I’m not very fond of treacle tart.” With that, he makes a beeline for the bathroom, Harry staring dumbfounded at his retreating figure.

Unable to resist from tucking in any longer, Harry retrieves a clean plate and spoons out some of the delicious dessert. The reflection he tried to do earlier seems more elusive than ever, and all he can process is Draco made him his own personal treacle tart. He’s savoring every bite, unable to help the nagging feeling Draco cooked for him out of love. Only a moment later, Harry’s convinced he must be going insane, because he and Draco are only just becoming friends. But  _then_ he remembers the way Draco looked at him when they were sitting on the park bench and is sure his own face reflected the same desire and care.

“Harry?” a soft voice queries from the hallway.

It takes second to realize his eyes are closed, probably from the brilliance of the treacle tart, but Harry opens his eyes and almost drops his fork to the floor. Draco’s standing in the entrance to the kitchen, dressed only in a soft white towel, hair tousled and still wet from the shower.

“Er, your tart is amazing,” Harry manages, feeling rather stupid.

Draco smiles, but it doesn’t seem to match his eyes. “Thanks. I’m sorry to cut your dessert short, but I forgot about an early engagement I have scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Everything okay?” Harry asks lightly, clearing his plate and sending it spinning into the sink before covering the rest of the tart with foil.

From the way Draco uses the hand not holding together his towel to rub his temples, Harry guesses something is wrong. But he says, “Shouldn’t be anything to worry about.”

Walking over to Draco, Harry wants to lay a hand on his shoulder but figures it would be crossing some essential boundary. “Is it anything I can help with?”

“No, I don’t want to worry you,” Draco says wearily. “It’s better if I don’t say anything, Harry.”

“Is it about your job at the Haunt?” asks Harry with a touch of trepidation.

Meeting Harry’s eyes, Draco nods. “Yes. As promised, Asten had me fired, and I’m interviewing at another club tomorrow.”

“Draco, I’m so sorry –”

“–I regret nothing about what happened, so don’t be sorry!” snaps Draco, running his hand rapidly through his hair. A beat goes by, and then he sighs. “Sorry for yelling. I was hoping to quit within the next month anyway, but then I found out my teaching salary is less than advertised.”

“Let me help you,” Harry endears, gazing eagerly at Draco. “I owe you a debt, anyway.”

Draco shakes his head. “No, now we’re even after what happened in the War. I can’t accept your charity – I have to get through this myself.”

“Work for it then,” he proposes, an idea taking shape in his mind. “We’ve already talked about your questionable teaching ethics. It’s probably best for you to get a bit of practice in before the fall semester, so what if you take over for me at the Club and teach dueling?

Doubtfully, Draco mulls it over. “I’m studying potions, not dueling.”

“Believe me, you’re more than qualified after your upbringing and then what you went through in the War. You probably know a lot of less-common spells they’ll be just dying to learn.”

He’s still hesitating. “What about when you feel well enough to come back?”

“You can have a regular schedule then, like everyone else,” Harry points out. “I always vary my days so they never know when I’m going to be there.”

“So basically all summer I can just go in to work whenever I want?” laughs Draco.

Harry shrugs. “That’s pretty much what I do. I make sure to go in twice a week, though.”

“How much do you pay your instructors?” Draco asks tentatively, a faint flush rising on his pale cheeks.

“How much do you want?” responds Harry, fiddling with a wooden shot glass cabinet on the wall that’s slightly off-balance.

“Potter, you don’t go around asking your employees how much you should pay them!” Draco snorts.

“Alright, then I’ll pay you what I pay Ron and Hermione,” Harry decides. He finds the problem with the hinge and fixes it, restoring the cabinet back to the wall’s good graces.

For once, Draco seems almost lost for words. “Really, you don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

“I want to,” Harry says stubbornly. “Get some sleep and don’t bother waking up early tomorrow. I’ll send you over the paperwork by noon.”

“Harry –”

“Thanks for an amazing dinner,” he says breezily, picking up his jacket from the sofa, where it was abandoned much earlier that day. Opening the front door, he turns around to meet Draco’s eyes once more. “And for a fantastic treacle tart.”

Harry’s halfway down the drive when the door is flung open and a very unhappy Draco runs out after him, towel and all.

“Potter! I wasn’t done talking to you!”

Trying to refrain from grinning, he turns around and quips, “Oh, did you not want me to leave without a goodbye hug?”

Draco doesn’t laugh. His mouth is turned down at the corners and his eyes look sad.

“If it really feels wrong to you,” says Harry resignedly, “You can work without pay. But if you remember, I asked you to teach while we were eating dinner before I even knew about your interview. It’s not charity, Draco. I know how good with magic you are. And how many NEWTS you got.”

Visibly, Draco softens.

“One other thing,” Harry tacks on, holding up a finger. “If we’re going to be friends, and it seems like we are, I’m likely going to keep offering to do nice things for you. That’s how friendships work, at least in Gryffindor.” He smiles at Draco. “It just means I care about you, is all.”

“I suppose pay would be okay,” Draco admits grudgingly.

“Oh don’t worry, you’ll be doing plenty of work,” Harry chuckles. “So I’ll talk to you later, then?”

“I’ll be waiting for your owl tomorrow,” says Draco. He turns to leave for real this time, but Draco calls out, “About that hug?”

Grinning madly, Harry spins around and walks back up the drive to meet Draco, who moves toward him as well. He encloses the blonde in his arms, rapturously enjoying the feeling of Draco’s soft skin. Unconsciously, his hands naturally move up to curl in Draco’s gossamer hair and Harry desperately wants to find out what Draco tastes like. Maybe Draco feels the same, because Harry suddenly notices Draco’s elegant fingers twisting in his own hair. Afraid of moving too quickly, he settles for brushing his lips against Draco’s ear and whispering, “Thank you” before pulling away and Disapparting with a  _crack_.

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The next morning, Harry manages to sleep until about five before waking up viciously to the sound of Asten laughing and licking his lips. His rear tingling with pain from the memory of the intrusion, he carts himself out of bed and goes into the kitchen to make an early cup of coffee. Halfway through drafting Draco’s paperwork for Wandmaster, the Floo rings.

“Harry! Oi, mate! Are you here?” shouts Ron’s voice, echoing clearly across the entire first floor.

Walking into the living room, Harry yawns. “What are you doing up this early?” He asks sleepily, rumpling his hair.

“Hermione had to get up early for an Unspeakable meeting, and because she had to be awake, she decided I had to be awake too,” says Ron, equally drowsy. “Then she told me I should go check on you because you haven’t quite been yourself lately.”

“That’s one way to put it,” snorts Harry. “Come through. I just made coffee.”

“Blimey, that’ll hit the spot,” agrees Ron. “Hang on.” A second later, he’s sprawled out all over Harry’s living room floor. “Shit, I tripped on the way over. Sorry for the mess, though.”

There’s a pile of soot and dust strewn around the room, but Harry isn’t in the mood to care. “No problem,” he says blearily, clearing it away with a swish of his wand. Another swish causes a second cup of coffee to fly precariously into the room and come to a halting stop in front of Ron, almost sloshing its contents over the rim of the cup.

“Thanks, mate,” answers Ron, downing a quarter of the cup in one swift gulp.

They sit wordlessly on Harry’s couch drinking coffee for the next fifteen minutes until the feeling of being human washes over them again.

“So how are you then?” proffers Ron, heaving his feet up onto the couch and sliding them in next to Harry’s torso.

“Better than before,” Harry answers honestly, swinging up his own feet and pinning them in next to Ron. Fortunately, he has the better hand by being wedged into the back of the couch: Ron is in the precarious danger of falling off of while he can just lay back and relax.

“I’m just going to be really upfront about this,” sighs Ron. “Before she left, Hermione made me swear that I would try to get a straight answer out of you.”

“Did she now?” asks Harry, amused.            

“You know that she did,” grouses Ron, turning over so that his face is facing the living room instead of Harry’s feet. “So, did anything – erm – untoward happen while you were out with Seamus this weekend?”

Harry ponders for a minute before answering with a crisp “Yes.”

“So we do have some ass-kicking to do,” nods Ron, wiggling around because Harry’s knees are digging into his back.

“More or less,” Harry agrees, poking him harder for the fun of it.

“Are you ready to go into detail?” Ron cautiously questions, squirming harder.

“Er, not yet,” manages Harry.

“I didn’t think so,” says Ron, rolling to face the back of the couch and shoving Harry’s bony feet and knees back on his own side.

“Seamus’s not invited to any more Friday drink nights,” says Harry frostily, avoiding his mate’s gaze.

“He wasn’t the one, was he?” inquires Ron, boring holes into Harry’s feet with his eyes.

“Um…”

Ron sits up so fast Harry thinks he might be having a heart attack. “Harry! Did Seamus – was Seamus – did he hurt you?”

“He wasn’t the one,” Harry answers wearily. “But he set it up so I was. And he did something inappropriate when we were dancing that I wasn’t comfortable with.”

Settling back down, Ron asks, “What did he do while you lot were dancing?”

It was paining him to think about it. He could still feel Seamus’s rough pants grinding against him and then his fervor when he came, holding Harry in place. “He came and then he went,” answers Harry truthfully. Stress is building now, because after that moment with Seamus, only a short while later he found himself trapped in the bathroom with Asten.

Sensing that Harry is done talking Ron grips Harry’s shin and says nothing. It’s a comfortable silence, not an awkward one, and the feeling of Ron’s hand grounds Harry and keeps him from falling into unpleasant memories. Before long, they’re snoring away, having been lulled back to sleep by the early hour and the sobering conversation.

At quarter to eleven, Harry wrenches himself out of sleep, wildly grabbing for his pen and paper. “Malfoy’s contract! Shit shit shit – if I don’t get it to him on time, he’s going to think I changed my mind.”

Each “shit” had been punctured with a kick, so Ron wakes up too, groaning and rubbing his eyes. “What the bloody hell, Harry? Why are you yelling about Malfoy?” A few seconds tick by, and then Ron furiously rights himself into a sitting position. “Wait – HE wasn’t the one, was he?”

“No, Ron,” answers Harry, rolling his eyes. “He saved me, and I think we’re kind of friends now, so be nice to him.”

Flabbergasted, Ron only watches with his mouth open as Harry jumps off of the couch, races into the kitchen, and comes back with a neat stack of paper. He painstakingly pulls the cap off of his fountain pen, and returns to scribbling out the conditions of Draco’s employment.

Offhandedly, he asks, “How much do I pay you and Hermione per hour to teach at the Club?”

“Fifty pounds,” Ron answers. “But only because Hermione wouldn’t let me ask for more.”

Harry snickers before signing the document and sealing it with a  _snap_. “Draco’s going to absolutely hit the fan when he reads this,” he says gleefully.

“Why are we talking about dueling and Malfoy in the same sentence? Are you summoning him to the Club for a contest, where you’ll wash the floor with him in front of your adoring audience?” Ron asks hopefully.

“Nope,” Harry replies happily. “He’s filling in for me on a temporary basis now, and then a permanent one later if he still has time to teach.”

Narrowing his eyes, Ron grumbles, “So you mean Malfoy’s going to be actually working at the Club with us? And you’re paying him as much as you pay me and Hermione? Harry, I hate to say this, but I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“Not at all,” Harry gloats. “In fact, I think I’ve found it. Besides, it was because of my situation that Draco lost his job.”

“Of course, how could we ever let ‘Draco’s’ good deed go unpunished?” mocks Ron, nearly dry-heaving into his arm. “What am I missing here?” Ron groans. “Don’t answer that –”

“I definitely won’t answer that,” says Harry, grinning wickedly.  

With a trace of seriousness, Ron asks, “Are you sure you’re ready to pursue some kind of  _thing_ with Malfoy? I mean, with what you’ve said went on…”

“I don’t want to let my life be controlled by what happened,” Harry says determinedly. “Besides, I was planning to go to Malfoy that night anyway. I was going to try and make things right with him and then see if he’d somehow be willing to go on a date with me.”

“You’re kidding,” says Ron, looking rather nauseous.

“Not at all. In fact, I think I had a thing for him back when we were still at Hogwarts. It just took me seeing him dance like in  _Sin City_ before I realized it.”

“Damnit, Harry! Now that movie is forever ruined for me. I swear, I’m not going to share my favorite muggle flicks anymore if you keep comparing them with  _Malfoy_.”

“He’s not what you think he is,” professes Harry. “You’d really like him, I think, if you gave him a chance.”

Ron sighs. “But will Malfoy give you a chance? You said that he had a similar experience and that’s why he helped you. But what if he just wants to help you recover and then that’s it?”

“Fair,” says Harry, who’s considered this possibility at least ten different times since last night. “But I won’t know unless I try, right? And he did really seem to be coming onto me last night. There was definitely one time I thought he was going to kiss me and another where he hinted about possible feelings for me.”

“If you want to be with him,” says Ron, surprisingly perceptive for once, “Then do it. I did think for a while at Hogwarts that you and him would be a good match. You’re both bloody stubborn, for one, and determined, and at times rather arrogant –”

Harry shoves Ron back into the couch, but he’s laughing. His expression clears after a minute, and he says worriedly, “I still don’t want you to get hurt, Harry, especially with the incident I still haven’t gotten all the details about.”

“Now you sound like Hermione,” says Harry, good naturedly. “I think she’s rubbing off on you, mate.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” says Ron suggestively, giving Harry a shit-eating grin and rolling his hips.

“Merlin, that’s way too much information for me,” mumbles Harry, trying to clear his mind of the unfortunate imagery.

“Now you know how I feel when you talk about Malfoy,” declares Ron, satisfied.

“Can I borrow your owl, you bloody wanker?”

“Sure, I’d love to see the look on his face when Pig shows up,” sniggers Ron.

Harry sighs. “I’ve got to get these delivered to Draco before he has a conniption. He’s stressed about finances, and I think he was half convinced that my offer was too good to be true.”

Ron Summons Pigwidgeon, and Harry carefully straps on Draco’s package along with a quick note asking if he can get the paperwork back by at least Friday. He wants to ask for another dinner date, but Ron’s reading over his shoulder and he decides to tread carefully or be teased mercilessly.

“So,” Ron says, oh-so-casually. “When’s Malfoy’s first lesson going to be?”

“I told him that he can start this week, doing one lesson on any day he wants.”

“You’re really letting him mimic your schedule of coming in whenever you want?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

“Well, for one, I won’t know when to show up and spy on him,” Ron says, as if it’s obvious. “Besides, I want to steal some of his teaching techniques. The little buggers are getting feisty on me again.”

“Draco’s techniques are so not going to be transferable to you,” Harry snorts. “You’ve got completely different personalities.”

“And more importantly,” continues Ron, ignoring Harry. “How will you properly observe him if you never know when he’s going to be there?”

Just then, Draco’s regal snowy white owl soars out of the sky, as graceful as its owner, to land on Harry’s living room windowsill. He immediately runs over to it to retrieve the message strapped to its leg, already Summoning the owl treats.

“Well, what does it say?” demands Ron eagerly, looking almost as anxious as Harry.

“He’s planning for Friday,” Harry reveals.

“That’s it? Seriously, that’s all he wrote?”

“Well, he also included a profuse set of thank you’s…” he breaks off when Ron snatches the letter and reads it to himself.

“Ooh, Harry, I can see why you think he might be into you,” Ron grins, handing it back. “I’m going home to get some more sleep before ‘Mione gets back.”

“I’ll find something to do to amuse myself,” Harry intones, settling down to read Draco’s letter again.

“See you Friday,” Ron says, heading for the Floo with an evil grin back at Harry.

“You’re impossible,” Harry replies, shaking his head. “And you better not do anything to embarrass me!” he hisses at Ron’s retreating back.

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Friday cannot come soon enough. Harry’s already cleaned his entire flat – by hand – top to bottom, planted and replanted a row of herbs in the outside garden after accidentally killing the first batch, and bought three new shirts and two pairs of jeans in anticipation of seeing Draco again. He’s also suffered two anxiety attacks, one near sleepless night, and a minor breakdown because memories of the rape continued to surface even when his mind and body are otherwise occupied. Tired of experiencing the same feelings over and over again, Harry resists reaching out to Draco for comfort because he’s afraid of the blonde man seeing him solely as a victim struggling with post- rape life instead of a possible lover. He wants to be open and honest with Draco about his experience, but doesn’t want it to monopolize their relationship.

In the letter, Draco indicated preference for the afternoon, so Harry spends all morning trying to decide which color shirt matches his new favorite jeans. In the end, he chooses one that reminds him of the Slytherin shade of green, but it simply brings out his eyes too nicely to pass up. Harry Apparates to  _Wandmaster_  around noon with plenty of time to make the much-overdue rounds. He interacts with students, dueling aficionados, worried people preparing for the apocalypse, interested hobbyists, and, of course, people just hanging around waiting to see famous Harry Potter. The two boys who accidentally bound him the last time he stepped foot in  _Wandmaster_  come to him immediately and apologize profusely. He remembers exactly how thoroughly Draco must have reamed them, and kindly reminds them of the rules and lets them off with a warning. Ron shows up about one and lopes around meaninglessly, waiting for the show to begin.

Finally, at quarter to two, Draco walks in the door. He’s dressed in what Harry expects is centuries-old Malfoy dueling attire, long, dark black robes with silver buttons done up to his throat. He looks around, and to anyone else, it would look dismissive and rather cold, but Harry can see Draco’s insecurity lurking behind the gesture. On the spur of the moment, Harry decides not to go up to him before the session. He’d rather not make Draco more nervous. Snatching Ron before he calls out to Draco, Harry quickly drags him up to the upper section of the seating area where they’re not likely to be seen.

“Why’d you do that for, mate? What’s the point of being here to watch Malfoy without him knowing that you’re here?”

“We’ll see him after,” Harry promises both himself and Ron, settling back in his chair in an effort to get comfortable. He always sticks close by on a new instructor’s first day in case they run into trouble, but in this situation Harry feels more comfortable sitting back and letting Draco find his own footing.

The very mixed crowd gathers around for the afternoon session, and Harry unconsciously takes a deep breath. He wants this to go well for Draco. Beside him, Ron seems rapturous, as if he’s waiting for Malfoy to turn back into a ferret and suddenly combust.

He needn’t have worried. Draco is a natural, somehow putting his students at ease even with his flawlessly cool demeanor and brisk perfectionism. Switching between group breakout sessions, demonstrations, and choosing brave soul volunteers, Draco leads the class through a set of wand techniques Harry’s quite sure he hasn’t seen before. One aficionado sees fit to question Draco’s knowledge, and Harry expects a Snape-esque display of power. Instead, Draco gives him leave to do whatever he wants, but then asks him to duel for the class. Harry thinks for a moment Draco will take on the man himself, but instead he selects a female hobbyist who’s a much weaker dueler than the man, in Harry’s opinion. The class knows it too, and they start tittering amongst themselves until Draco silences them with a sharp look. Harry wishes he could demand respect so immediately – Snape always inspired a healthy fear in students – and from the expression on Ron’s face Harry can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

As the younger hobbyist steps up to meet the aficionado, Harry feels a nervous sense of trepidation. In his experience, wand techniques have mattered less than the duelist’s skill. He trusts Draco’s judgement, but isn’t positive this is going to work out for the better. Draco asks the duelists to cast and counter five relatively simple dueling spells, ones that clearly indicate the winner of the competition. They begin casting, and while it seems the aficionado is initially quicker on the draw, the hobbyist overtakes him, casting and countering with a speedy sense of ease. The competition concludes with her as the clear winner.

Draco holds up his hand to stem the resounding applause from the class, instructing, “This wand technique lets the duelist gain at least a half second advantage on their opponent. It helps them cast and counter faster because it shortens the casting motion required but does not decrease the spell’s potency. As you can see, it transforms even a weaker duelist into a formidable opponent for a more experienced caster.”

The flushed aficionado mutters a quick apology to Draco and scoots back into the group, almost camouflaging himself in the middle. Without so much as an untoward glance, Draco continues on with the lesson. He demonstrates efficient ways of moving one’s body, both reactions and response, in order to gain even more seconds on one’s opponent. From his knowledge of the Malfoy family, Harry expects Draco’s dueling style to be flowy and graceful, and though these motions are clipped, Draco dances with the ease Harry always imagined him having.

Wrapping up the lesson, Draco invites each student to take a turn with him, saying “You’ll get better a lot faster if you duel someone at a higher skill level than you are.” One by one, they go down within two minutes – some only last one – as Draco twists, turns, and flicks his wand with exact precision. They look slightly befuddled and insulted afterward, but Draco soothes them and attempts to inspire by pointing out they could become as equally good if they keep practicing and continue learning new techniques. He puts a lot of emphasis on that part, and Harry knows why: dueling styles are constantly so relying on one method can be suicidal. After the class is officially over, several students swarm around Draco and he’s bombarded with questions from all sides.

“Merlin,” breathes Ron, “I’ve never gotten that kind of response before.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” says Harry, still entranced, “I haven’t, either.”

By mutual consent, they rise from their chairs and pick their way down to the main dueling floor. Draco’s telling the students that he can do a lesson on each one of the topics, in order to go more in-depth, but they only seem slightly placated.

“Can’t learn everything in one day,” Harry says easily, trying to save Draco from the onslaught.

“You heard the man,” commands Draco. “Potter’s right. It’s impossible to truly grasp more than one or two concepts at a time.”

Slowly, the crowd disperses, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief before catching Harry’s eye. His pale face flushes just slightly, and for a second he almost looks like he expects Harry to chastise him.

“Congrats, Malfoy,” says Ron, scourging the awe from his face. “Hate to admit it, but I learned a lot just from watching.”

“You watched?”

“We did,” confirms Harry, throwing Ron some quick side-eye shade. “You were fantastic, Draco.”

He visibly relaxes, and Harry wants nothing more than to throw his arms around the man and snog him senseless.

“Where did you learn those techniques?” queries Ron, staring intently at Draco.

“My father,” Draco responds rather predictably. “He taught me the classic Malfoy dueling style, but he was nothing if not practical, so he made me learn this way as well. I have to say, it’s been so much more useful than the traditional method.”

“Hungry, Draco?” asks Harry. “I already know you are,” he snorts, glancing at Ron.

“I could eat,” Draco shrugs. He gives Harry a quick once over, which miraculously doesn’t escape Ron.

“Actually,” Ron says reluctantly, “I was going to head over to the Department of Mysteries and see if I could get Hermione to bugger off early for date night.”

“That’s so sweet, Weasley,” coos Draco.

Ron glares at him. “I still don’t actually like you, wanker.”

“Same.”

“Well, Ron,” interrupts Harry, “Have fun with ‘Mione tonight. We can get drinks tomorrow instead?”

“Of course,” says Ron gloomily. He and Harry both know that the chance of Hermione actually leaving work early is next to nil. “See you later.”

Harry waves as Ron walks away, turning his attention back to Draco. “Where do you want to go?”

“Someplace with food, Potter, obviously.”

Grinning, Harry says, “Well, in that case –” He reaches out and takes Draco’s arm, Apparating them to his favorite Vietnamese pho place. “You’re going to love this,” he says to Draco when they’ve regained their bearings.

Draco wrinkles his nose. “That remains to be seen.”

They seat themselves, and a young waiter promptly rushes over, carrying water glasses with lime and two menus. Harry already knows what he’s getting, so he watches Draco’s expressions as the other man considers the menu.

Eventually, the waiter comes back and Harry can see Draco’s still not done deciding. “I’ll have the chicken fried rice and the vegetarian spring rolls,” he says, already practically drooling, as the waiter takes down the order.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Draco says finally, closing his menu.

“One order of spring rolls is enough,” Harry tells the waiter, who nods, collecting the menus before retreating.

Neither speaks for a few minutes as they wait for the food, but eventually Draco says, “You’re right. Teaching dueling is really good practice for teaching potions. I’ll be especially prepared since right now I’m teaching all ages, but during the semester I’ll only be working with younger adolescents.”

Harry laughs. “And you got your first real challenge today, as well.”

Draco shakes his head. “Oh, you have no idea how much I wanted to strangle him. I had to do the next best thing and let him get taken down a few bloody notches by another student.”

“It was so hard to watch,” Harry admits. “I trusted you, but before today I never believed that technique makes that big of a deal.”

“Of course it does,” says Draco as though this fact should be obvious. “Mechanics are everything, no matter what you’re doing. Try the Sloth Grip Roll without proper posture.”

“I’d much rather not,” Harry remarks, thinking about how many Seekers he’s seen break bones because of poor execution. “But really, Draco, you did excellent today.”

“Glad you approve,” Draco responds stiffly. “I had no idea what you were expecting, so I planned for what I thought most appropriate –”

“–That’s exactly what I wanted you to do,” reveals Harry. “Our styles are totally different. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to approach teaching in a certain way.”

“You’re surprisingly insightful,” Draco notes.

Harry smiles. “I can be.” They make eye contact and burst out laughing just as the waiter arrives with the spring rolls.

“Ooh,” drools Harry, snatching one up. “Try it. It has to have the peanut sauce, though. He dunks it in the nutty brown sauce and takes a ginormous bite, eyes rolling back in his head because of how good it is.

Tentatively, Draco picks up one of the rolls and carefully uses his spoon to rub on some sauce. Harry watches carefully as Draco bites down and immediately lights up.

“Wow,” he says, going back for more sauce. “This is fantastic.”

“It’s just so perfect with tofu,” Harry sighs, grabbing for a second roll. “I love the little noodles too. It’s an amazing combination.”

Their rice comes then, and Draco picks up his chopsticks without hesitation and digs in. “Gods, I never would have expected you to be insightful  _and_ have good taste in food.”

“You’d be surprised, Draco,” comes Harry’s response through a mouthful of fried rice, “With the many things you don’t know about me.”

They quietly finish dinner, both too focused on devouring the rice and spring rolls, but Draco asks Harry to go for a walk afterwards. Comfortably strolling down the lane, Harry longs to take Draco’s hand but restrains (as usual).

“How have you been doing?” Draco asks quietly.

“Not perfect,” he answers honestly, “But better than I was.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Draco says instantly. “I was going to owl you a few days ago, but, uhm–”

Harry has never seen Draco at a loss for words before. He waits silently, wanting to hear why the blonde never sent the owl.

“–I was afraid of pestering you,” Draco whispers, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

He stops walking before reaching out and grabbing Draco’s arm. “Draco,” Harry whispers, “I don’t think it’s possible for you to pester me anymore.”

Draco softly laughs. “Challenge accepted, Potter.”

Instead of letting the moment drift back into a friendly camaraderie, Harry cups the back of Draco’s head with one hand and caresses his cheek with another. “I’m not imagining things between us, am I?” he asks huskily.

“No,” breathes Draco, and then suddenly their lips are meeting and it’s everything Harry dreamed it would be. Draco’s mouth is soft and plump, and he’s got his hands buried now in Harry’s hair so the nerve endings in his scalp shoot straight down his core. Though Draco is slightly taller, Harry pulls him close and nips a little harder at him to deepen their otherwise chaste kiss. Responding positively, Draco opens his mouth and gently laves at Harry’s lips with his tongue. When they finally make it to the French kiss, Harry thinks his heart might burst with love for this man. As each becomes more passionate, their teeth lightly click and Harry desperately needs to breathe. He pulls slightly back and looks into Draco’s eyes, pleased to see depths of emotion reflecting out of his normally steel gray eyes. Suddenly, the eyes cloud over and Draco closes off.

“Draco?” Harry asks, concerned.

“I should be getting home, Potter, but thanks for dinner,” Draco says crisply, wrapping his outer robe more tightly around himself. There’s a muggle around, so he can’t immediately Disapparate. Harry seizes his chance right before the man rounds the corner, clutching at Draco’s arm furiously.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he orders, stepping in front of Draco even as the blonde frees his limb.

“Nothing’s wrong, Potter. But I happen to think we should keep our relationship solely professional from now on.”

“Shove off,” snaps Harry, insides wailing with hurt.

“Yes, Potter. Exactly what I intend to do. See you next week.” Draco makes to Disapparate, but Harry latches onto him for the second time.

“Was that talk we had the other day meaningless?” Harry grates. “I thought we could be open and honest with each other now. But don’t worry, Malfoy. It’s fine – leave. Thanks for fucking me over again.” He turns to leave, trying not to condemn himself for throwing a tantrum.

There is no  _crack_ of Disapparation. Draco seems to be waiting for something, but Harry isn’t sure what. After a long silence, he says, “I’m not worried about professionalism.”

“Then what are you worried about?” Harry says wearily, refusing to turn around.

“You,” Draco says simply. “You're not ready for this, Harry. I can’t keep coming onto you like this.”

“Excuse me?” he demands, whirling around. “It’s bloody mutual; you’re not forcing me into anything!”

“Not yet,” says Draco, a bright flush rising in his neck. “But you have no idea how much I want you.”

Harry’s face softens. “Draco, you have no idea how much I want  _you_. Listen, I wanted you as soon as I saw you dancing. I was planning to come and talk to you after the show, but then the bathroom thing happened…”

“Really?” asks Draco with renewed interest. “Why did you go to the bathroom instead then?”

“Well,” he says carefully, “I needed an excuse to get away from Seamus. He gave me the bloody dampener potion before I left, and I didn’t realize what happened until it was too late. I went into the bathroom so I wasn't  _really_ lying. And then Asten came in.”

“So your friend almost got you raped,” Draco positively growls.

“More or less, yes,” he affirms, looking queasy. “He was encouraging me to get laid, but I never expected him to force me into that sort of situation. But this  _was_ after he got off on my ass after we were dancing–”

“– _What_ did you say?” fumes Draco. “I swear, I’ll tear him limb from limb.”

“Please do,” sighs Harry. “I haven’t seen him since then. I don’t think there’s anything to say. But look, this is about us, not what happened. I don’t want this relationship to be centered around the fact that I got raped.”

With enormous effort, Draco calms himself down. “I still don’t know how you can be comfortable with this yet, Harry. I couldn’t think about sex for months after what happened to me.”

“Whatever you say, I still think your experience was worse,” says Harry firmly. “I don’t want Asten to control my life. Voldemort did that for long enough.”

“–Harry–”

“Draco, you might not be trying to, but you’re taking away my choice just as much as they did.”

“I wasn’t thinking of it that way,” Draco admits. He walks across the lane to an open, grassy lawn and leans back against a tree. “Come here, Potter,” he whispers.

Harry crosses over to him and sits between Draco’s legs, leaning back against his chest and letting his head rest against Draco’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want this?” Draco breathes, nuzzling Harry’s head with his nose.

“Yes,” he breathes back, rotating around enough to take Draco’s lips with his own. This time, Draco gives himself fully to Harry, ghosting his fingers over Harry’s back and petting his hair, cheeks, and jawline.

Lost in pleasure, Harry and Draco sit for a long while under the tree. Eventually Harry makes an attempt to reach under Draco’s shirt and lavish attention on his sculpted chest.

“Harry,” Draco says, a little uncomfortably. “I’d like if we could go slow, though. I’m not just concerned about your mental state,” he reveals when Harry starts to open his mouth. “I’m worried about mine as well. This is the first time I’ve been with anyone since then.”

“Oh, Draco,” Harry says softly. He gently caresses Draco’s face and scatters a couple of sweet kisses over his lips and cheeks. “Of course I don’t mind. “It’s probably better like that, anyway.”

“I want this,” Draco determines. “I need you to know that I want this, I want you.”

“I know,” Harry confirms. “I want you, too.” He pulls Draco into a hug, enjoying the feeling of Draco’s lean muscles and torso against his.

“I think I should go home now,” moans Draco. “Otherwise there’ll be no more slow.”

Harry laughs. “If you insist,” he says, with eyes sparkling. “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

“How about the day after?” Draco suggests. “Go see Ron and Hermione.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Harry admits. “I did tell Ron we’d grab drinks tomorrow, and if I was with you, I’d want to spend the whole day together.”

“I know,” sniggers Draco. “Why do you think I need a break, Potter?” As Harry’s face falls, Draco swoops down and kisses him again, lovingly and chastely. “Just kidding.”

“I’m leaving now, you heartless beast,” Harry teases. He extracts himself from Draco’s body and stands, letting the pins and needles work their way out of his muscles.

“No goodbye hug, Harry?” mocks Draco gently, also standing up.

“Never,” says Harry, throwing himself back at Draco, who catches him and gives him a loving hug.

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” Draco promises.

“Until then,” Harry returns, sneaking one more look at his beautiful boyfriend. Before he ends up in Draco's arms again, he Apparates away.

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Saturday passes more slowly than ever. When Ron and Hermione finally meet Harry at the bar, he’s already downed one whiskey and ordered a second.

“Hey, mates,” he says cheerily, leaning back in his chair to greet them.

“How’re you doing, Harry?” smiles Hermione. “It’s good to see you!”

Ron kicks out his chair and sits down, leaving Hermione to fend for herself. “Did you get us some booze, mate?”

“No way,” chortles Harry. “It’s your night, remember?”

“Rubbish,” mutters Ron darkly.

“Don’t mind him,” Hermione says lightly, indicating Ron with her hand as she pulls out her own chair. “He took me out for Date Night yesterday and spent a little bit more than he meant to.”

“Someone just had to have bloody caviar at London’s most premiere restaurant,” Ron grumbles.

“So you made it off of work early then,” Harry confirms, taking another small sip of whiskey.

“I did,” crows Hermione. “In fact, I’ve vowed to cut out early every Friday and make Date Night a weekly thing.”

Ron casts a helpless gaze at Harry, but he only laughs.

“Why’re you in such a good mood, then?” Ron injects, signaling for the waiter. “Did your paycheck come in?”

“No,” says Harry, “But the most amazing thing happened to me yesterday.”

“What was it?” asks Hermione, genuinely interested.

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” he preempts, waving a finger around in the air at them.

“Never, mate, never,” notes Ron, acting like Christmas has come early while Hermione looks on, amused.

“I’m dating Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione’s Cosmo wobbles slightly in her hand while Ron takes it all in stride. “So he did return those feelings after all – wow.”

“Yeah, I know, right?”

“Harry, are you sure that this is what you want right now? I know you’ve been going through a bit of a trying time…” hedges Hermione. “Not that I don’t think Malfoy has changed, and all.”

“’Mione, I’ve wanted Draco since Hogwarts, but I just didn’t realize what I was feeling until now. It’s hard to explain–” he breaks off.

“I know that it makes you uncomfortable, mate,” says Ron sympathetically, “But it might be better if you told me and Hermione what happened to you. We almost got there, you know, earlier this week.”

Harry rubs his temples. They’re his best friends, and more than anything else, he wants to let them in. Maybe they won’t understand, but they can certainly try. And he’ll feel better than if they just keep assuming worst case scenario situations. “Alright,” he concedes, after a long minute. “But I need another whiskey first.” He drains his second, feeling the heat travel down his insides.

After the waiter brings Harry’s new drink, Ron and Hermione start to look at him slightly impatiently. He clears his throat, eager to get it over with. “Well, I went out with Seamus,” he begins, already starting to feel shame and embarrassment for the situation. It was much easier to talk to Draco, who already understood.

“Go on,” prompts Ron.

“Seamus danced with me at the first place we went to,” he says, closing his eyes. It’s possible to imagine the polka dancer instead if he just tries hard enough. “He used my arse to grind until he came.”

“Now that’s just obscene.” Hermione shakes her head. “I thought Seamus was a decent guy.”

“There’s a reason he’s now kicked out of our bar gatherings,” Harry says darkly. “So afterward, we go to this other place where, erm, men dance. On stage. And it’s really secretive; we were blindfolded and led to our seats by some blokes in masks.”

He takes a swig of whiskey before continuing. “So the first act was really boring – just some hula dancing – but the second performance had five guys dressed in trench coats and red thongs working the audience. Each of them chose a person to incorporate into the act, and this one bloke picked me. We tangoed, and then he kissed me on the lips.”

Hermione and Ron are working their way through their own drinks. Harry can see how Hermione’s hand trembles as she downs her Cosmo and how Ron’s lips are pulled into a grimace across his face. He hates causing his friends such strife, but knows what happened isn’t his fault.

“It was disgustingly sexy,” Harry reveals. “Seamus, though, later on in the act he actually was tonguing another guy’s red thong. You can imagine they were very well received by the crowd.”

They nod, and Harry reaches for his water glass. Getting too tipsy is only going to cause him more pain.

“So afterward, Draco comes onstage and practically every guy’s mouth is on the floor because he’s so fantastic at what he does. The dance reminded me so much of  _Sin City_ –”

“–I am never watching another movie with you,” Ron mutters.

“I didn’t know that it was him until the very end,” Harry continues. “Seamus takes the piss out of him for dancing while talking about how hot he is. By then, I realize how long I’ve been pining after Draco, and decide to go talk to him.”

Sensing that this is where things get ugly, Hermione reaches across the table and grabs Harry’s hand. “We’re here for you, she whispers.” Ron agrees.

“Seamus gives me what I assume is a drink,” Harry says. “I take a swig and tell him I’m going to the bathroom. I go to avoid lying – and then the guy I did the tango with comes in. He pushes me around, makes some threats; the usual. I try to fight him after I find out I can’t use magic anymore, and he binds me.”

Tears are openly running down Hermione’s face, and Ron looks strangely choked up.

“After I break his nose with my face,” Harry says quietly, “He uses the blood to penetrate me with his finger. While he sucks my cock with his teeth.” His own hands are shaking now. “He rapes me.”

His friends are shocked into silence, so Harry continues. “I kick a vase into the wall, and Draco comes bursting into the room. He duels Asten and wins. Then he cleans me with a rag, heals me, and makes sure I make it to your place safely. The next day, I stupidly go to the Club and am accidentally bound by some kid, and he rescues me again. We talked a lot, then. Oh, and Draco made me an antidote.”

“Oh, Harry,” whispers Hermione. “How are you even functioning right now?” Ron says nothing. Harry doesn’t think he can.

“I’m trying to move past it,” he says bracingly. “I don’t want my life to be controlled by something again, even if it’s my own mind.”

“You’re sure you’re ready to have a relationship, mate?” Ron finds his voice, but it’s still uncertain.

“I am,” Harry declares. “I’ve wanted to be with Draco for the longest time, but even if I hadn’t, I’d still say yes to dating him. I’m ready for this. As a bonus he understands what I’m going through.”

“You don’t want to talk to someone?” asks Hermione.

“Gods, no,” replies Harry, revolted. “I’d much rather talk to you lot or Draco.”

“Er, Harry,” says Ron tentatively. “If you weren’t dating Malfoy right now, would you be more upset about this? I mean, are you just happy because you’re with him?”

He gives it some honest thought. “No,” he finally determines. “Sure I’d be a bit distraught, but I am anyway. Draco just makes me feel like I’m not alone. It helps to be able to share my experience with someone who’s also been sexually assaulted.”

Wisely, Ron and Hermione refrain from asking about how or why Draco was raped. Harry assumes they understand it’s not his story to tell. Everyone stays quiet for a moment, thinking.

Finally, Hermione asks, “How can we help you make it this? I see what Malfoy meant, when he said what you were dealing with couldn’t be cured by magic.”

“Do exactly what you’re doing now,” responds Harry. “Be there for me. Make me leave my house. Don’t let me fall into despair.”

“That’s it?” Ron says disbelievingly.

“You could also cook for me sometimes, if you want,” says Harry with a snicker. “But really, yeah. That’s it. You lot knowing actually helps a great deal.”

He’s drawn into a three way hug across the table. Squeezing his friends tightly, tears start dripping down Harry’s nose as he reflects on how lucky he is to have such great people in his life. Ron. Hermione. Draco. He could work through this on his own, but nothing feels better than knowing your best friends always have your back.

εїз Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ εїз

A few months later, Harry’s doing better. He still wakes up to nightmares, both of Voldemort and Asten, but he’s happy with his life. The fall semester is underway, so Draco only teaches on Mondays and Fridays. Harry’s gone back to teaching as well and has been inspired to apply to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts the following fall. From the hints Headmistress McGonagall drops, he’s pretty sure he got the job. Draco’s finishing his Potions Mastery in May, and Harry has a secret little fantasy that they could both teach at Hogwarts together.

Ron and Hermione keep a close eye on Harry and he loves them all the more because of it. Several times, they’ve found him in his bath, too exhausted to get out. There were some low points where he didn’t leave his house for a few days, at least until Hermione and Draco lured him out with homemade food. On the by and large, Harry continues to improve and his bad days are fewer and farther in between.

Draco and Harry’s relationship blossoms as the two grow closer together. They spend large chunks of the summer together, a setup that is only deterred slightly by Draco’s return to school. Harry prepares lesson plans for the following year while Draco brews complicated potions and studies Potions theory, each relishing the company of the other.

There’s only one thing they haven’t done together yet, though both have professed their love multiple times. One Friday before they’re about to go to bed, Harry leans over to whisper in Draco’s ear, “Are you ready?”

Draco knows exactly what Harry means. “Yes,” he breathes back. They sit up and face each other, softly touching their lips together. Harry threads his fingers through Draco’s silky hair, loving their sweet, chaste kiss. Slowly, their lips deepen the kiss and Harry can’t breathe with how much he loves Draco.

Softly caressing his face, Harry nips at Draco’s jawbone, working his way down the blonde’s neck until he cries out in pleasure. Next he gently tugs off Draco’s shirt and laps at his pert nipples; gently teething and sucking until Draco pushes away to practically smother him in another heated kiss. Harry reaches down to fondle Draco through his pajama pants, but Draco instead takes off Harry’s shirt and moves to lap at his nipples, circling around in the way that always makes Harry crazy.

After a minute, Draco takes Harry’s hand and gently uses it to caress his own leg, but Harry takes over and starts stroking Draco everywhere but the place he wants most. “Please, Harry,” Draco gasps. “I need you. Now.” He runs his hand over Draco’s still-covered cock and balls, fondling him firmly enough to take his breath away.

Fed up with the teasing, Draco straddles Harry and kisses him furiously enough to leave marks. He ruts against Harry’s cock, desperate for the friction and heat. Harry responds eagerly, enjoying the weight of Draco’s body pressing him into the mattress.

Unable to hold back, Draco starts breathing quicker and shallower so Harry has to grab his shoulders to stop his movement. “You still want to have sex, right Draco?” he asks teasingly, squeezing his partner’s nipple.

“Yes,” moans Draco with a wild expression, his eyes darkening rapidly.

“Take your clothes off, love,” Harry whispers, intoxicated by Draco’s beauty. His lover complies and Harry takes the upper hand, dumping Draco ungraciously on the bed and coming to rest between his legs.

“Do you want me to suck you, Draco?” he asks, rubbing his chin against Draco’s thigh.

“Harry, you know I do,” says Draco weakly. “Please. I need you.”

Deciding not to torture him any further, Harry gently runs his fingers up and down Draco’s cock, earning a couple soft groans and a hand in his hair pushing him down. He laves his tongue up the shaft, paying special attention to just underneath where the glans meets the rest of the cock. Draco writhes beneath his ministrations, uttering “Fuck, Harry. Yes, that’s it! Please, more.”

Eventually he encases Draco’s cock in his mouth, forming his lips into a tight ‘O” and bobbing up and down right on Draco’s most pleasurable spot. He uses his hand to grasp the root of Draco’s shaft and pump him at the same time. Draco’s begging for more now, and Harry decides to try something new. At the same time he sucks Draco’s cock further into his mouth, finally deep throating him, he Summons the lube from across the room and coats his finger before gently inserting it into Draco’s hole. The reaction is priceless. Draco keens his hips up for more, crying out softly as Harry finds his prostate and stimulates it. When he feels Draco’s balls tighten, he gives Draco’s cock one last kiss and gently removes his finger.

Eagerly, Draco sits up and practically rips off Harry’s remaining clothes, desperate to return the favor. He sucks cock well, always remembering to add the little twist at the end Harry is so fond of, and soon Harry is groaning and clutching at Draco’s hair, trying not to fuck into Draco’s face. “More, love,” he chokes out. “Draco, love. Come on, more!”

Mimicking Harry’s earlier actions, Draco dips his finger into the lube and looks up questioningly. Harry nods yes, so Draco softly coaxes open Harry’s bum hole and inserts his finger. Even as Draco hits all of Harry’s favorite spots with his mouth as his finger rubs Harry’s prostate, he can’t get the image of Asten out of his head. “Draco,” he gasps. “Please stop – I can’t, I’m not ready for this –”         

Draco pulls his finger out immediately, albeit gently, and cleans it before snaking his way back up Harry’s body. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmurs, kissing Harry full on the lips. The next minute, Harry’s drawn back into the moment with Draco, having already forgotten about his painful memories. “It’s okay, Draco,” He whispers, hugging Draco close into his chest and claiming Draco’s mouth with his own. “I thought I could do that, but it’s still too hard.”

“I prefer bottoming anyway,” Draco smiles, nuzzling Harry’s jaw. “I love you, Potter.”

“I love you too, Malfoy,” he says, touched as always by Draco’s displays of affection. “Are you ready for this?” Draco nods yes, and so he headily asks “So how do you want me?”

“Just like this, Harry,” Draco breathes, ethereal in the soft bedroom light. He straddles Harry’s hips and then sinks down on his cock, quivering as his pucker struggles to take it all in. Harry feels Draco’s muscles contract as he envelops Harry’s cock and can’t help but shiver with the immense amount of pleasure the blonde is giving him.

“Draco,” he says, overcome with emotion and desire, “You’re beautiful.” Draco’s fully filled by Harry’s cock now, but he’s still unable to move.

“So are you,” says Draco, bending his legs to contour them to Harry’s before leaning down to kiss his lover. He starts gently moving up a moment later, breathing rapidly outward from the tingling, allowing Harry to squeeze the globes of his arse. “I love you like this, Harry.”

“I love you like this, Draco,” returns Harry, almost floating as Draco engulfs his cock again and squeezes tightly. They make love harmoniously slow for a few minutes, kissing each other and enjoying their bond, their new togetherness.

Beginning to get closer to the end, Draco gives Harry a scorching look before lifting up and then slamming back down. Harry’s breath hitches, and he isn’t responsible for the noise that comes out of him as Draco fills him with pleasure.

“Harry,” pants Draco after a few minutes, “Can you take over?”

“My pleasure,” says Harry, feeling like he’s floating. He flips them so that they’re still face-to-face, but with Draco on the bottom and he on top. “Do you want it rougher, love?”

“No,” Draco admits. “I’m starting to get sore.”

“Should we finish another way?” Harry asks, wanting Draco to enjoy their love-making just as much as he is.

“Try more lube,” Draco suggests. Pulling out, Harry lubes up again and gently fills Draco again. “Yes, that’s so much better. Can you go up a bit, though?” Harry aims his firm thrusts up a little bit, and Draco breathes with ease. “Right there, Harry. Gods, you don’t know how much I love being taken by you.”

“I think I do,” whispers Harry, kissing Draco again as the blonde wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders. “And I feel the same. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment, Draco.”

They undulate together as one, Harry feathering his fingers through Draco’s gossamer hair as Draco breathes, “Come for me, Harry. Come on, love. I want to feel you deep inside me.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, Draco,” Harry groans, reaching around to grasp Draco’s cock and tug it in rhythm with his strokes. “Are you close?”

“Yes.” Draco’s breath hitches and Harry already feels his balls contracting. The sight of Draco’s closed eyes and flushed face sends him over the edge, and they writhe together in pleasure. Harry erupts deep into his lover as Draco spurts sharp white lines over both of their torsos, and after the fact they drift together on the verge of sleep, holding one another in a state of bliss.

After a short nap, Draco wakes up and nudges Harry. “That was amazing, Harry, but I think I’d like to go to bed clean.”

“Agreed,” mumbles Harry sleepily. He fumbles around for his wand on the bedside table, quickly cleaning them up. “Do you need healed, Draco?”

“No,” Draco decides. “I want to feel you when we wake up tomorrow morning.”

“Come here, Malfoy,” Harry says affectionately, pulling the blonde into his chest.

“Goodnight, Potter,” Draco responds, nestling into the crook between Harry’s shoulder and neck.

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The next morning, Harry wakes while it’s not yet light outside. He loves the feeling of Draco pressed firmly against him, still intertwined tightly around his body. Focusing on the wonderful love-making they’d done the night before, Harry tries to chase away memories of Asten and the rape. He sits quietly for a good half an hour, unable to come to any sort of closure. Finally, just before dawn, he wakes Draco up. “Love,” he whispers, stroking Draco’s hair lavishly and nudging his shoulder. “Wake up.”

Groaning from tiredness, Draco stretches and looks at the clock. “Harry, are you alright? You’re not having bad dreams again, are you?”

“Maybe a little,” Harry concedes. “But I just had a thought and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Okay,” says Draco, snuggling back into his pillow and Harry’s warm body even as he watches his lover intently.

“It’s about Asten and Seamus,” Harry says, relieved when Draco’s expression doesn’t change. “I feel like I can’t get past it because I don’t have any closure.”

Draco nods. “That’s understandable,” he says. “You don’t really want to have it out with either one of them, do you? Or would you rather we cursed them with something permanent?”

“None of the above,” decides Harry. “I think I want to report it. Like, officially.”

“You want to take it to the authorities?” asks Draco incredulously.

“Yes,” he says, completely serious.

“I want to tell you right off that it might not bring you the closure you seek, Harry. In fact, it might make it more painful. You’ll have to see them both in court and give intimate facts to the judge and jury. They’ll ask very detailed questions and expect equally detailed answers.”

“I know,” he responds. “Thanks for warning me. But I don’t want to hide this – I feel like I shouldn’t have to. As much as I want revenge, I think I’d rather have them subjected to justice and punished according to law.”

“Are you sure?” Draco prompts. “Even with the corruption within the Ministry?”

“Yes. If justice isn’t appropriately served, then you’re more than welcome to help me hex and curse them to our hearts’ content,” Harry says firmly.

“Okay. Then I’ll be happy to testify on your behalf,” concurs Draco. “I’ll let them see my memories and everything.”

“Thank you,” whispers Harry, bending Draco’s head back gently to kiss him.

“You’re welcome,” Draco breathes back, closing his eyes and leaning into the kiss.

Neither can fall back to sleep, so they rise from the bed and step out onto Harry’s balcony, hand in hand watching the red sun rise.

“It’ll work out in the end, Harry,” Draco says. “I have faith that you’ll overcome this and be a stronger man for it.”

“When I manage that,” answers Harry, “It will be because of my faith in you. My faith in us.”

 “We have a new dawn,” says Draco fiercely. “Let’s make the most of it.” Harry pulls Draco into a passionate, loving kiss, and they stay out on the balcony long after the sun assumes its proper place in the sky.

Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all of your comments and kudos so, so much. They motivate me to post more often and create more stories for y'all to enjoy. =D
> 
>    
> Lots of love,
> 
> alienlover13
> 
>    
> If you liked this fic, please check out some of my other works: [Butterfly Kisses](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6446107/chapters/14751727) and [California Loving](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6152964/chapters/14097546).


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